CHAUNCEY  WETMORE  WELLS 
1872-1933 


This  book  belonged  to  Chauncey  Wetmore  Wells.  He  taught  in 
Yale  College,  of  which  he  was  a  graduate,  from  1897  to  I90I»  and 
from  1 90 1  to  1933  at  this  University. 

Chauncey  Wells  was,  essentially,  a  scholar.  The  range  of  his  read- 
ing was  wide,  the  breadth  of  his  literary  sympathy  as  uncommon 
as  the  breadth  of  his  human  sympathy.  He  was  less  concerned 
with  the  collection  of  facts  than  with  meditation  upon  their  sig- 
nificance. His  distinctive  power  lay  in  his  ability  to  give  to  his 
students  a  subtle  perception  of  the  inner  implications  of  form, 
of  manners,  of  taste,  of  the  really  disciplined  and  discriminating 
mind.  And  this  perception  appeared  not  only  in  his  thinking  and 
teaching  but  also  in  all  his  relations  with  books  and  with  men. 


OUR  HOUSE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

H*W  YORK  •   BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  ♦    BOMBAY  •   CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


OUR  HOUSE 


BY 

HENRY  SEIDEL  CANBY 


H2eto  gotfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1919 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1919 
By  the  macmillan  company 


Set  up  and  elect rotyped.     Published  April,  1919. 


IN  MEMORIAM 
Cu>.VX)etts 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  PAOX 

I  Chicken  and  Waffles 3 

II  The  "  Rock  " 13 

III  Home 25 

IV  Compromise 32 

V  Work 46 

VI    Intermezzo 58 

VII    Pastorale 72 

VIII    Crisis 84 

IX      AwiKENING 90 

X    Release        95 

BOOK  n 

I    Johnny  Bolt 105 

II    New  York 117 

III  Search  and  Research 122 

IV  The  Rocket 133 

V  Mary  Doone 142 

VI    Life  for  Art's  Sake 155 

VII  The  Real  Thing 165 

VIII  Crowfoot 174 

IX  Spoon  op  Straw 186 

X  Not  Wounded,  Sire, —  But  Dead ,    .  201 

XI  Terra  Incognita 208 

BOOK  III 

I    The  Lull 215 

II    The  Plunge 227 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

III  Struggle 237 

IV  Degradation 243 

V  Flight 247 

BOOK  IV 

I  The  Quick  or  the  Dead 253 

II  The  God  of  Cash 261 

III  The  Mysterious  Stranger 271 

IV  Sumach,  Cedar,  and  Bay 275 

V  Doubt 281 

VI  Dawn 289 

VII    The  Pencil  Man 296 

VIII      MlLLINGTOWN  AT  LAST 300 


BOOK  I 


OUR  HOUSE         OF 

CHAPTEK  I 

CHICKEN    AND   WAFFLES 

IN  the  Roberts'  dining-room  a  match  flame  sparkled 
momentarily  upon  the  dark  mahogany  of  the  side- 
board and  the  cheerful  golden  oak  of  glass  cabinets  op- 
posite. Another  and  brighter  lit  spectrally  the  stiff 
family  portraits  hung  above.  George,  the  colored 
M  waiter,"  was  lighting  the  new  candles  beneath  their  rosy 
shades,  humming  tunelessly  as  he  moved  along  the  table  — 

"  Jee-ru-saluhum, 
Jee-ru-saluhum, 
If  ev-ur  I  take  my  stan' — 
Oh,  happy  lan\ 
Fse  comin'  Lawd.' 
Fse  comin'  Lawd." 

When  a  match  went  out  he  grumbled  and  scratched  an- 
other on  his  alpaca  trousers.  He  did  not  like  the  new 
candles,  with  their  springs,  and  light  so  faint  that  you 
couldn't  see  how  much  was  left  in  the  dishes.  His  idea 
of  a  party  was  to  light  all  the  gas  and  then  fix  up  the 
napkins  to  look  like  birds  or  bouquets,  the  way  they  did 
at  Cape  May.  "  Seven  of  'urn  " —  he  counted  the  chairs 
to  make  sure  there  were  places  enough  — "  but  Miss  Mattie 
she  don'  eat  no  waffles.  A  plateful  '11  jes  about  go 
round." 

The  pantry  door  swung  open  and  the  chocolate  face  of 


4  OUK  HOUSE 

Martha  the  cook  shone  through  a  mist  of  steam  and  odors 
of  delicious  baking.  "  Call  'urn  in,  George/'  she  whis- 
pered stridently. ,  "  I  got  the  chicken  dished  an'  them 
rolls,  '11  be  colii'  ;iii  a  minute." 

'  The  guests  marched  into  the  big  dining-room  with  a 
huifiorotis;  assumption  of  formality,  although  it  was  a  real 
Millingtown  party,  everybody  cousins  and  every  one  just 
"  friendly."  Cousin  Jenny  grasping  John  Boberts'  long 
arm  led  the  way,  the  diamond  brooch  on  her  thin  old 
breast  nodding  with  the  vehemence  of  her  talk.  "  I'm 
ten  years  older  than  the  rest,"  she  was  saying,  "  and  so 
I  go  first.  Oh,  look  at  Sarah  Boberts'  table!  Isn't  it 
grand !  Is  it  going  to  be  chicken  and  waffles,  John  ?  I'm 
sure  I  smell  waffles."  The  rest  were  a  little  subdued  by 
the  dim  lights  and  the  bare  mahogany.  "  Sarah  always 
does  get  ahead  of  Millingtown,"  Cousin  Mattie  whispered 
flatteringly.  The  men  were  less  naive.  "  Can't  see  to 
help  you  right,"  John  Boberts  grumbled  in  his  husky 
voice.  "  Here,  Mattie,  I  don't  know  whether  this  chick- 
en's dark  or  light." 

The  men  wore  blue  serge  coats  and  white  duck  trousers, 
except  Cousin  Tom,  who  never  departed  from  a  cutaway, 
even  in  hot  weather.  The  women's  full  sleeves  brushed 
their  neighbors'  shoulders.  George,  with  his  plate  of 
waffles,  had  to  dodge  as  they  turned.  Sitting  behind  her 
great  silver  coffee  urn,  Mrs.  Boberts  watched  the  supper 
with  an  anxious  eye,  and  sent  fingers  here  and  there  on 
random  errands,  straightening  a. doily,  or  rearranging  a 
fork  and  spoon.  She  seldom  joined  in  the  mirth  of  the 
table.  Her  quiet  reserve  was  like  the  dignity  of  the  old 
mahogany  sideboard,  her  grandmother's  behind  her.  John 
Boberts'  awkward  jollity  better  agreed  with  the  golden 
oak  cabinets  and  the  lace  curtains  at  the  windows.  He 
was  a  shy  man  ordinarily,  tall  and  a  little  gaunt,  with  a 


CHICKEN  AND  WAFFLES  5 

spot  of  bright  color  on  either  cheek  above  his  rounded, 
iron-gray  beard,  and  a  curious  huskiness  of  voice  that 
melted  as  he  spoke.  Among  cousins  he  warmed  quickly 
into  the  friendliness  of  Millingtown,  which  was  neither 
vulgar  nor  loud,  but  was  best  described  perhaps  as  col- 
loquial. "Now,  Tom,"  he  called,  with  knife  in  air, 
"  Mattie's  a  leg  ahead  of  you.     Pass  his  plate,  George." 

"And  take  those  waffles  away  from  Mr.  Jim,"  cried 
Cousin  Jenny.  "He's  had  seven  already.  Jim,  you're 
as  bad  as  your  boys.  They  ate  ten  apiece  at  my  house 
last  Sunday  night.     Gracious,  I'm  glad  I  never  married !  " 

The  table  hushed  for  an  instant.  Everybody  knows 
family  history  in  Millingtown;  and  they  all  were  think- 
ing of  how  Cousin  Jenny  had  been  engaged  to  the  Rankin 
that  was  killed  in  '63. 

"  Cousin  Jenny,  won't  thee  have  another  cup  of  coffee  ? " 
Mrs.  Roberts,  like  most  Millingtown  people  of  the  Quaker 
stock,  used  "  thee  "  by  custom  only  with  her  immediate 
family.  Elsewhere  it  was  a  sign  of  especial  intimacy  or 
affection,  and  now  of  quick-covering  sympathy.  They 
knew  Cousin  Jenny's  loneliness. 

"  No,  Sarah,  thank  thee.  I  don't  want  to  chase  Jack 
Robinson  round  his  barn  to-night.  When's  thy  boy  com- 
ing home  ? " 

The  mother's  eyes  lit  with  happiness.  "  To-morrow," 
she  said.  "  Thee  knows  he  was  to  stay  on  a  week  after 
graduation;  but  now  he's  coming  home  for  good." 

"  He'll  be  the  seventh  Roberts,"  John  Roberts  added 
gravely  from  his  end  of  the  table,  "  to  go  into  business  in 
Millingtown." 

Mrs.  Roberts'  fork  trembled  a  little  in  her  hand.  "If 
he  goes  into  business,"  she  said. 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  "  What's 
.thee  mean,  Sally  ?  " 


6  OUR  HOUSE 

A  faint  blush  touched  her  cheeks  and  stole  upward  to 
the  gray  hair  waved  above  her  forehead.  "  I  don't  think 
that  Robert  likes  business,"  she  murmured  uneasily.  "  I 
don't  believe  — "  she  hesitated  — "  he  has  a  business  head." 

The  cousins  looked  at  each  other  apprehensively.  Not 
to  have  a  head  for  business  was  the  worst  that  could  happen 
to  one  in  Millingtown. 

"  Nonsense !  "  Cousin  Jenny  snorted.  "  There  never 
was  a  Roberts  without  good  business  sense.  He  has  to 
have  it  —  why,  he's  the  only  son  John  has.  What  does 
thee  mean,  Sarah  Roberts  ?     I  call  that  boy  smart." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that  he  wasn't  bright  enough,"  Mrs. 
Roberts  began  anxiously,  but  the  men  interrupted  her. 

"  College  nonsense !  "  Cousin  Tom  grunted.  "  What 
did  you  send  him  to  college  for  anyway,  John  ?  You  and  I 
never  missed  it." 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Cousin  Jenny,  pursing  her  lips  till 
her  chin  bristled,  "  it's  a  bad  thing  to  send  a  Milling- 
town  boy  away  from  Millingtown.  There  isn't  any  other 
place  so  good  for  him;  and  if  he  goes  once,  he'll  go  again 
to  stay,  and  often  enough  — "  she  paused  for  effect  — "  to 
New  York." 

Mrs.  Roberts  felt  the  eyes  of  all  the  cousins  upon  her. 
"  Robert  Roberts'  family  has  always  lived  in  Millingtown," 
she  said  with  a  little  injured  dignity  in  her  voice.  a  No 
Roberts  ever  leaves  Millingtown.  They  belong  here." 
She  looked  up  with  real  affection  at  the  stiff  old  family 
portraits  and  the  tall  clock  that  had  ticked  in  its  corner 
through  iive  generations. 

Cousin  Jenny  nodded  emphatic  approval.  "  Thee's 
right,  Sarah,"  she  mumbled  between  mouthfuls  of  hot  rolls 
and  chicken.  "  And  I  don't  quite  trust  any  one  who 
isn't  real  Millingtown.     Look  at  Mary  Sharpe.     D'you 


CHICKEN  AND  WAFFLES  7 

know  — "  The  conversation  sank  to  whispers  among  the 
women.  The  men  took  advantage  of  the  lapse  in  mirth 
to  revert  to  business. 

"  Sold  your  cotton  yet,  Tom?  " 

"  No,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  buy  the  stuff  and  put  it  in  the 
back  yard." 

"  I  saw  Henry  Blackall  in  Philly  yesterday.  He  says 
that  Southern  Consolidated  is  going  to  par." 

Cousin  Jenny  emerged  suddenly  from  the  whisperers. 
"  Now  you  boys  just  stop  talking  stocks,"  she  cried. 
"  This  is  going  to  be  a  real  Millingtown  party.  Talk  to  us. 
Sarah  Roberts,  if  you  don't  give  me  another  roll  I'll  never 
come  to  your  house  again.  Tom  Brand,  you're  sitting 
there  as  if  this  were  Quaker  meeting.  Mattie,  pinch  him 
until  he  smiles." 

"  Hark !  "  cried  Cousin  Mattie,  putting  one  hand  to  her 
ear.  In  a  sudden  hush  they  heard  a  blare  of  music  far 
away  but  coming  nearer.  A  band  was  playing  staccato, 
"  There'll  be  a  hot  time  in  the  old  town  to-night."  Voices 
joined  in ;  they  could  hear  the  pop  of  revolvers  and  soon  the 
tramp  of  marching  feet. 

"  Oh,  it's  just  a  procession,"  Cousin  Mattie  said,  disap- 
pointed; but  Cousin  Jim,  who  was  still  a  boy  when  a 
band  was  coming,  flung  open  the  shutters.  "  It's  the 
boys'  brigade,"  he  called.  "  Maybe  something's  happened 
in  Cuba."  The  men  pushed  heads  out  beside  him,  the 
women  with  apologetic  glances  for  Mrs.  Roberts  (fresh 
waffles  just  coming  in  too!)  grouped  behind  them. 

A  straggling  crowd  was  pouring  up  the  dim  street  be- 
low. Bed  fire  blazed  over  waves  of  straw  hats,  Boman 
candle  balls  plopped  up  into  the  treetops,  and  as  the  proces- 
sion came  under  the  arc  light  at  the  corner  they  could  see 
the  marching  ranks  of  the  boys'  brigade.     "  There'll  be  a 


8  OUR  HOUSE 

hot  time  in  the  old  town  to-night."  A  boy  darted  from  the 
street,  climbed  the  fence,  and  ran  toward  their  open  win- 
dow.    "  Extra,  sir  ?  " 

Cousin  Jim  read  the  headlines :  "  Big  Victory  near 
Santiago.  Flying  Squadron  Sunk."  The  crowd  passed 
on  toward  the  Soldiers'  Monument;  the  music  and  the 
cheering  were  united  in  distant  f aintness.  "  That's  fine," 
said  the  men.  "  All  sunk  ?  We  lose  any  boats  %  Knew 
we  could  do  it."  Cousin  Jim  closed  the  shutters,  the 
women  fluttered  back  to  their  places,  the  men  slumped 
heartily  into  theirs,  George  passed  ice-cream  meringues  and 
sponge  cake.  Every  one  felt  a  little  apologetic  for  the 
interruption  and  talked  rapidly  to  make  up.  "  Sarah, 
how  do  you  get  this  cake  so  light?  Would  Martha  give 
me  her  receipt  ?  I'm  so  glad  we  won ;  and  what  good  ice 
cream."  Then  even  as  the  voices  of  the  crowd  had  died 
away,  this  portentous  news  from  the  outside  world  drifted 
past  the  little  Millingtown  circle  and  left  them  in  friendly 
self-absorption. 

They  did  not  hear  a  foot  in  the  open  doorway,  nor  see 
a  brisk  girl  of  twenty-three  or  thereabouts,  severely  but 
fashionably  dressed,  enter  the  dining-room.  A  liberty 
scarf,  rather  pink  and  fluffy  for  her  cold,  pure  lines  and 
general  air  of  being  past  the  callow  stage  of  youth,  was 
thrown  about  her  neck.  She  looked  frightened.  "  Mr. 
Eoberts !  "  she  called  emphatically. 

The  talk  died  away.  "  Why,  Miss  Sharpe  ?  "—  Mrs. 
Roberts  recovered  her  startled  dignity.  "  Do  come  in. 
Sit  down  and  have  some  ice  cream."  Her  tone  of  rapidly 
assumed  formality  was  reflected  in  the  faces  of  the  com- 
pany. 

"  No,  no,"  Mary  Sharpe  cried  impatiently ;  then  smiled 
as  she  saw  the  shocked  surprise  in  Cousin  Jenny's  counte- 
nance.    Good  food  was  not  lightly  regarded  in  Milling- 


CHICKEN  AND  WAFFLES  9 

town.  "  I'm  sorry  to  interrupt ;  but  do  look  at  your  shed, 
Mr.  Roberts.  I  saw  a  Roman  candle  ball  drop  through  the 
lattice,  and  I'd  hate  to  see  this  lovely  old  house  burn." 

"  Good  gracious !  "  exclaimed  John  Roberts  and  dashed 
through  the  pantry  door  followed  by  the  other  men.  They 
heard  his  shy  voice  in  a  minute  calling  through  the  kitchen, 
"  All  right.  Nothing  serious,"  and  turned  with  relief  to 
their  meringues.  Cousin  Jenny  grunted.  "  i  This  lovely 
old  house/  "  she  whispered  to  her  neighbor.  "  How  about 
us!"  "  Please  sit  down,  Miss  Sharpe.  It's  so  hot  to- 
night," Mrs.  Roberts  spoke  nervously. 

Clearly  Miss  Sharpe  would  rather  not.  She  felt  ill  at 
ease  at  these  Millingtown  suppers  with  their  gossip,  and 
their  mirth,  and  cousin  this  and  cousin  that. 

"  Now  just  sit  down  and  be  sociable,"  Cousin  Jenny 
urged  in  kind  atonement  for  her  grunt.  "  A  little  of  Mrs. 
Roberts'  ice  cream'll  do  you  good.  You  don't  get  ice 
cream  like  hers  in  New  England.  Nor  waffles  either.  But 
then  you  don't  like  hot  bread  in  New  England.  Why 
don't  you  ?     Are  you  cold  blooded  ?  " 

Mrs.  Brand  and  Mrs.  Darlington  looked  at  each  other 
significantly.  Mrs.  Roberts,  flushing,  straightened  the 
plate  of  sponge  cake.  It  was  what  they  all  wanted  to  say. 
But  wasn't  Cousin  Jenny  the  — 

Mary  Sharpe  sat  down  with  a  good-humored  laugh. 
"  Isn't  Millingtown  funny,"  she  remarked  as  she  crushed 
her  meringue.  "  Why,  I've  been  here  ten  years  and  you 
still  call  me  a  New  Englander!  I'm  as  much  Milling- 
town as  any  of  you."  Her  dark  ironic  eyes  searched  their 
doubtful  faces.  "  Won't  you  ever  admit  me  to  your  — 
Roman  citizenship  ? " 

Mrs.  Roberts  felt  the  conversation  growing  impolite. 
"  George  —  a  fork  for  Miss  Sharpe,"  she  murmured. 
(Why  did  she  want  a  fork  ?     Oh  yes,  to  eat  her  cake  with. 


10  OUR  HOUSE 

The  idea !  Wasn't  that  New  England !)  "  But  we  think 
very  highly  of  New  England,"  she  said.  "  We  sent 
Robert  to  college  there;  and  you  know  how  he  loves  it. 
Though  it  doesn't  seem  as  —  as  friendly  as  Millingtown." 

Mary  Sharpe  was  busy  with  the  fork.  "  Yes,"  she  an- 
swered calmly,  "  we  don't  call  each  other  '  cousin  '  so 
much,  and  that  sort  of  thing  —  which  is  so  charming  —  if 
you  happen  to  have  cousins." 

"  But  you  are  related  to  the  Dixons,  and  they  are  con- 
nected with  all  the  good  families  here."  Mrs.  Roberts 
spoke  deprecatingly.  Her  kind  heart  was  touched  by  the 
picture  of  a  cousinless  New  England. 

Mary  Sharpe  grimaced  at  her  ice  cream.  "  Oh,  yes, 
the  Dixons !  " 

"  Your  grandmother  was  a  Dixon,"  Cousin  Jenny  con- 
tributed with  some  severity.  "  I  saw  her  married  in  the 
parlor  of  your  house,  under  the  chandelier.  She  married 
out  of  meeting,  and  an  army  officer  too.  It  was  quite  a 
scandal  then." 

"  That  awful  chandelier !  Yes,  and  died  and  left  me 
the  house,  so  that  here  I  am.  J'y  mis,  j'y  reste"  She 
made  a  gesture  of  comic  despair. 

The  tone  rather  than  the  words  disturbed  the  company. 
"  She's  not  Millingtown,"  whispered  Cousin  Jenny 
fiercely.     They  were  relieved  by  the  entrance  of  the  men. 

"  All  right.  Thank  you,  Miss  Sharpe."  John  Roberts 
was  always  awkward  in  Miss  Sharpe's  presence.  "  But 
we  nearly  burned  up  to  celebrate  the  victory.  Sarah  — 
any  more  ice  cream  ?  " 

Miss  Sharpe  dropped  her  fork.  "  A  victory,"  she 
flamed;  "  I  call  it  a  disgrace!  To  trap  the  poor  helpless 
creatures  and  then  drown  them  like  rats." 

Her   warmth   made    them    still   more    uncomfortable. 


CHICKEN  AND  WAFFLES  11 

"  But  they're  only  dagoes  after  all,"  Cousin  Jim  protested, 
with  ill-advised  levity. 

u  Dagoes !  "  She  turned  upon  him.  "  The  proudest 
race  in  Europe  —  with  a  Velasquez,  and  a  Pizarro,  and 
a  Ferdinand  behind  them.     Dagoes !  " 

Mrs.  Roberts  threw  her  gentle  voice  desperately  be- 
tween the  combatants.  "  Did  you  know  that  Robert  was 
coming  home  to-morrow  ?  "  she  asked  pleadingly. 

Mary  Sharpe  forgot  her  warlike  ardor.  "  To-morrow ! 
Splendid!  Tell  him  IVe  some  new  books  to  show  him, 
and  a  picture.  What  is  he  going  to  do  —  in  Milling- 
town  ? "  She  addressed  the  company,  with  a  breath's 
pause  in  the  midst  of  the  question  that  was  not  lost. 

u  Go  to  work,"  answered  Mr.  Roberts  curtly. 

"  Of  course,  of  course.  But  at  what  ?  What  will  he 
do  here  ?  "  There  was  the  faintest  tremble  of  emphasis 
upon  the  "  here." 

Cousin  Jenny  rustled  her  sleeves.  "  Whatever  he  can 
do  best,  my  dear,"  she  sniffed.  "  There's  always  room  for 
a  Roberts  in  Millingtown." 

"  I  wonder,"  Mary  Sharpe  murmured  thoughtfully. 
She  turned  again  to  Mrs.  Roberts.  "  You  won't  put  him 
in  business,  will  you  ?     He's  not  made  for  business." 

The  cousins  looked  at  each  other  in  shocked  disapproval. 
"  Meddle-cat,"  Cousin  Jenny  remarked,  none  too  softly. 

John  Roberts  caught  only  her  general  negative. 
"  Women  think  that  a  man  ought  to  know  business  before 
he  begins,"  he  said  in  his  vague,  diffident  fashion.  "  Rob- 
ert has  to  learn  like  the  **est  of  us.  He  may  be  a  little 
mooney  just  now,  but  he's  got  the  stuff  in  him.  I'm  going 
to  give  him  the  same  chance  I  had  myself.  I  wish  the  real 
estate  business  here  were  as  good  now  as  it  was  then  " — 
he  broke  off  rather  shortly. 


12  OUR  HOUSE 

Mrs.  Roberts'  lips  moved  helplessly.  The  cake  was 
gone.  The  fresh  coffee  had  not  come.  She  could  not 
think  how  to  end  this  conversation.  But  the  end  came  of 
itself. 

"  Taxes  going  up  next  year,  d'you  think,  John  ?  "  asked 
Cousin  Jim.     They  were  tired  of  infant  psychology. 

When  Mary  Sharpe  said  good-night  a  little  apologet- 
ically and  left,  they  settled  back  into  a  relieved  cousin- 
ship.  "  There's  nothing  like  the  old  folks,  after  all," 
Cousin  Jenny  remarked,  patting  Cousin  Tom  on  the  shoul- 
der. "  Now  we  can  talk."  Only  in  Mrs.  Roberts'  heart, 
usually  so  placid,  so  content  with  her  little  world  of  simple 
dignities,  a  flicker  of  warm,  inexplicable  emotion  stirred 
whenever  she  thought  of  her  son,  of  his  moods,  and  his 
interest  in  things  of  which  she  had  learned  little  —  of  what 
she  could  guess  of  his  passionate  desires. 


CHAPTER  II 


«/~\N  with  the  dance,  let  mirth  be  unconfined,"  Johnny 
\<J  shouted,  and  waved  his  empty  glass  in  the  air. 
u  Whee — ee — ee !  n  He  was  not  "  piffed,"  as  the  college 
slang  of  the  day  put  it,  not  even  "  illuminated  " :  it  was 
only  his  craving  for  joy  seeking  encouragement  wherever 
it  might  be  found.  They  sprang  to  their  feet,  kicked  back 
their  chairs,  and  placing  arms  on  shoulders  stamped  around 
the  table,  singing  — 

"  Chi,  Rho,  Omega  Lambda  Chi, 
We  meet  to-night  to  celebrate 
The  Omega  Lambda  Chi," 

until  the  leader  found  the  door  and  led  them  out  through 
the  applauding  cafe  to  the  stars  and  the  keen  sea  air. 

Across  the  street  of  the  noisy  shore  resort,  called  for 
short  the  "  Rock,"  a  band  was  blaring  "  The  Stars  and 
Stripes,"  and  a  hundred  couples  were  two-stepping  up, 
down,  back,  and  forward  on  the  open  floor.  "  I  see  my 
girl,"  Johnny  cried ;  they  broke  column,  and  ran. 

Robert  Roberts  let  the  rest  go  ahead.  His  thoughts  were 
whirling  a  little  with  the  mirth,  the  singing,  and  the  glass 
of  champagne  he  had  drunk.  He  was  still  atin^le  with  the 
elation,  the  effrontery  of  a  college  spree.  And  yet  a  pain- 
ful shyness  held  him  back.  What  could  you  say  to  those 
flushed  girls  who  swung  their  partners  with  such  insolent 
pleasure,  and  laughed  at  everybody.  He  stood  at  the  edge 
of  the  light,  a  slender  figure  with  a  dreamy  face  and  sensi- 

13 


14  OUR  HOUSE 

tive  eyes,  but  a  firm  chin  and  a  head  held  high  that  showed 
power  as  well  as  grace.  Just  now  he  was  awkwardly  con- 
scious of  a  bamboo  cane,  and  looked  younger  than  his 
twenty-one  years.  His  thoughts  were  younger  too.  There 
was  a  naive  freshness  in  them  still  after  four  years  of  col- 
lege. He  envied  Johnny  Bolt  his  ironic  smile  and  easy 
chuckle  as  he  danced  down  the  hall;  and  wondered  end- 
lessly what  they  were  really  like  —  these  girls  who  were 
not  afraid  to  let  themselves  go. 

One  of  them,  with  hair  aflutter  and  burning  cheeks, 
dropped  her  partner  and  ran  out  into  the  night,  fanning 
herself  violently.  "  Gee,  I  nearly  stepped  on  you !  "  she 
panted  apologetically,  as  her  arm  touched  his.  "  I 
couldn't  see  a  thing."  Her  voice  was  friendly,  her  slim 
figure  appealing.  "  I  came  out  to  get  cool,"  she  added 
provocatively. 

Eobert  Eoberts  stammered  a  little,  but  found  the  proper 
tone  of  humorous  lightness  before  she  had  noticed  his 
embarrassment.  "  Tried  the  pier  ? "  he  asked,  swishing 
his  duck  trousers  with  his  cane. 

"  No  —  come  along,"  she  said,  so  they  strolled  off  to- 
ward the  real  darkness.  His  heart  beat  high,  and  he  could 
not  resist  a  glance  over  his  shoulder  to  see  whether  any  of 
the  fellows  had  noticed  his  easy  nonchalance.  Long  lean 
"  Dug  "  Duckins,  sprawling,  as  usual,  on  a  bench  by  the 
door,  caught  the  glance,  and  uncoiling  his  serpentine  legs 
made  a  running  gesture  as  if  to  pursue.  Robert,  pre- 
tending not  to  see  him,  hurried  on.  He  intended  to  study 
the  species  now  he  had  the  chance. 

The  proper  thing  to  do,  he  supposed,  was  to  put  one  arm 
around  her  waist.  He  tried  it,  thrilling  a  little.  She  did 
not  seem  to  object.  But  when  he  increased  the  pressure 
she  flung  herself  away.  u  I  thought  you  didn't  look  that 
kind,"  she  said  patiently.     "  But  you  students  are  all  that 


THE  "KOCK"  15 

way.  You  have  to  be  hugging  a  girl  every  minute.  Why 
can't  you  just  talk  ?  " 

It  was  what  he  was  longing  to  do.  He  wanted  to  ask 
what  her  kind  was  like  anyway;  what  they  thought;  how 
they  felt;  whether  you  could  be  careless  of  what  people 
said,  and  yet  (like  Trilby  in  the  story)  be  good.  Milling- 
town  thought  not.  But  he  knew  from  his  college  experi- 
ence that  such  an  approach  would  never  do.  She  would 
laugh  at  him.  "  I'm  not  that  kind,"  he  replied  cautiously. 
"  But  can't  hugging  and  talking  go  together  ?  "  She  gig- 
gled. He  was  piqued.  "  What  did  you  come  with  me  for 
if  you  didn't  want  to  be  hugged  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  at  him  curiously.  "  What  kind  of  a 
guy  are  you  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  know  you're  a  student,  but 
you  talk  so  queer.  Say,  kid,  what  do  you  think  I  am  any- 
way ? " 

He  blushed  and  hesitated. 

The  girl  stopped  short.  "  Oh,  you  do,  do  you ! 
Well  — "  her  voice  grew  thick  with  passion  — u  I  want 
you  to  remember  I'm  a  lady.  I  come  out  here  just  be- 
cause I've  got  to  have  some  fun.  I'm  straight, —  do  you 
get  that !  " 

Kobert  Roberts  took  off  his  hat  in  an  agony  of  embarrass- 
ment. "  I'm  sorry,"  he  said  very  sincerely,  "  I  didn't 
mean  to  insult  you."  His  face  looked  very  delicate  and 
very  noble  in  the  starlight.  But  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
twitched.     "  You  did  let  me  hug  just  a  little,  you  know." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  that!"  the  girl  cried  cheerfully. 
"  If  you'll  just  treat  me  like  a  lady  you  can  squeeze  me 
all  you  like.  Here  you  are."  She  flung  her  warm  arms 
about  his  neck  and  gave  him  a  suffocating  embrace. 
"  Let's  sit  down  somewhere." 

They  found  a  bench  far  out  on  the  pier  and  sat  down 
together.     "  What  do  you  do,"  he  asked  whimsically,  put- 


16  OUR  HOUSE 

ting  one  arm  with  easy  confidence  about  her  waist,  u  when 
you're  not  —  hugging  ?  " 

"  Ain't  you  a  kidder,"  she  whispered  luxuriously.  "  I 
work  in  a  shop.  But  I  just  have  to  get  some  fun  in  the 
evenings."  Her  tone  became  dreamily  mysterious. 
"  I'm  French-Canadian  —  emotional,  you  know.  If  a 
man  married  me  and  didn't  love  me,  I'd  —  I'd  hill  him." 
She  laughed  at  Robert  Roberts'  startled  face.  "  You 
needn't  worry,  kid.  I  don't  wan't  you  to  marry  me.  I 
know  your  kind  don't,  except  when  they're  drunk.  All  I 
want  is  a  little  fun."  She  sank  gently  against  him. 
"  Isn't  the  water  just  grand  ?  " 

Starlight,  a  softly  moving  air,  waves  that  ran  through 
a  thousand  broken  lights  to  lap  on  a  distant  shore,  faint 
distant  music,  and  this  warm  creature  snuggling  into  his 
arms !  His  blood  began  to  stir,  his  imagination  to  tingle 
into  life.  Far-flung  ideas  of  romance  flowered  in  his  mind 
—  lone  seas,  lovely  creatures  a-tremble  with  the  mystery  of 
sex,  yet  familiar,  companionable  —  and  giving  life  to  all, 
the  consciousness  of  a  warm  body  next  his  own,  and  the 
grace  of  her  profile  against  the  starlight.  Touching  real- 
ity, touching  passion,  he  clasped  her  to  him. 

"  Ouch !  you  pinch  !  "  she  cried.  "  And  you  made  me 
drop  my  gum.  Got  any  more  ?  "  Relaxing,  he  answered 
a  little  coldly.  High  romance  dropped  like  a  star  into  a 
clammy  sea  of  revulsion.  She  wriggled  from  his  loosened 
arms  and  began  to  explore  the  planks  below  for  the  lost 
gum.  "  Here  it  is,"  she  cried  triumphantly,  wiped  it  off 
with  her  handkerchief,  and  popped  it  into  her  mouth 
again.  He  noticed  with  loathing  that  the  handkerchief 
smelt  of  vile  cologne. 

The  girl  felt  the  change  of  mood,  for  drawing  away  she 
began  to  arrange  her  hair.     "  Well,  if  you're  through  I 


THE  "ROCK"  17 

am,"  she  announced  good  humoredly :  "  It  was  good  while 
it  lasted,  wasn't  it !     Want  to  dance  ?  " 

Robert  Roberts  sprang  up  with  conscience-stricken  alac- 
rity. She  was  a  good  sort  after  all,  this  merry  heart. 
"  Sure  I  do."  He  put  his  arm  again  about  her  waist. 
The  distant  music  swung  into  a  Sousa  march,  and  they 
moved  toward  it. 

A  faint  chorus  of  chirpings  began  on  the  benches  op- 
posite, little  whispers  that  swelled  to  resounding  smacks. 
The  girl  began  to  giggle.  "  Say,  listen  to  them  other 
couples."  But  the  smacks  passed  the  bounds  of  kissing 
and  became  chokes  and  chucklings.  A  horrid  suspicion 
weakened  Robert  Roberts'  knees.  "  It's  the  crowd." 
Seizing  her  arm,  he  hurried  her  down  the  pier.  But  it 
was  too  late.  Chairs  and  benches  rolled  over  beside  them, 
and  a  line  of  figures  formed  across  their  path.  "  Ho, 
recreant  knight,  stand  and  deliver  thy  errant  damsel !  " 
Robert  recognized  the  high-flown  persiflage  of  Johnny 
Bolt.  "  The  toll  on  this  bridge  is  three  kisses,  or  a  hair 
ribbon," —  he  knew  Dug's  wheezy  voice.  The  girl  was 
frightened.  "  Don't  let  'em  touch  me,"  she  pleaded. 
"  I'm  straight  —  I  told  you  I  was  straight." 

Robert  Roberts'  romantic  chivalry  rushed  back  in  a 
wave.  "  Get  out  of  the  way,  confound  you,"  he  shouted, 
and  tried  to  rush  the  pass.  A  stocky  figure  rose  out  of  the 
dark.  He  bent  and  tackled  it,  rolling  over  and  over  among 
the  benches.  When  he  pulled  himself  free,  the  girl  was 
skimming  down  the  pier.  "  I  wonder  what  her  name  was," 
he  had  time  to  think  before  they  closed  upon  him,  shout- 
ing "  bind  him  hand  and  foot."  Writhing  and  kicking 
good  humoredly,  he  was  carried  from  the  pier  to  the  wait- 
ing cab. 

As  they  rolled  slowly  down  the  white  road  across  the 


18  OUR  HOUSE 

great  marshes  some  one  began  to  sing  softly,  and  soon  all 
were  singing  in  rich  chorus : 

"  Only  a  bluebell  —  emblem  of  constancy, 
O'er  life's  weary  road  —  pointing  the  way  to  me. 
A  hundred  fathoms  —  hundred  fathoms  deep, 
A  hun-dred  fath-oms  —  hundred  fathoms  deep, 
We  know  —  there  is  no  one  to  corn-pare  with  us, 
In  a  hundred  —  fathoms  —  deep." 

Eobert  Roberts'  mood  responded  to  the  melancholy  senti- 
ment of  the  chorus.  The  pier,  the  girl,  his  warm  embrace, 
already  they  seemed  hazy,  remote.  He  began  to  realize 
that  this  was  his  last  college  night,  the  last  night  when  this 
old  crowd  would  act  and  feel  together.  Dug's  arm  on  his 
shoulder  tightened  as  they  swayed  over  the  sand  heaps  of 
the  marsh  road,  he  put  his  own  hand  affectionately  on  the 
knee  of  old  Bill  who  sat  quiet  and  steady,  as  always,  beside 
him.  He  wondered  what  Bill  had  been  doing  in  the  blare 
and  noise  of  the  "  Rock."  He  wondered  what  they  all 
would  be  doing  a  year  from  now.  Who  would  be  married 
then  —  who  already  successful  ?  A  dozen  glancing  specu- 
lations shot  through  his  mind  as  he  looked  at  their  familiar 
faces  in  the  starlight :  "  Spike  "  pouring  his  heart  out  in 
quasi-melody  with  eyes  tight  shut;  Johnny  stressing  the 
sentiment,  with  ironic  fervor ;  Dug  sprawled  out  over  two 
seats  in  perfect  bliss.  Deeper,  intenser  experience  might 
be  awaiting  him  in  the  outer  world,  but  this  college  life  at 
least  was  real.  He  felt  a  passionate  desire  to  drink  the 
last  drops  of  it,  to  pour  its  reality  into  his  heart. 

Some  consciousness  that  this  was  the  last  time  they 
would  be  coming  home  together  seemed  to  reach  the  others. 
When  the  song  stopped,  they  sat  silent  as  the  hack  rattled 
over  the  pavements  of  the  old  town  until  Johnny  stirred 
uncomfortably.  "  I'm  getting  low  in  my  mind,"  he  said 
dismally.     "  I'm  getting  low  in  my  mind,"  he  repeated 


THE  "BOCK"  19 

in  anguish,  "  Hey,  Morris,  drive  us  to  Mory's,  quick" 

"  Let's  go  home,"  said  Bill.  "  Let's  go  to  a  dance," 
suggested  the  voluptuous  Spike.  "  Let's  drive  up  East 
Bock,"  proposed  Bobert  Boberts  who  wished  to  taste  this 
night  to  the  full.  "  How  much  to  drive  us  up  East  Bock, 
Morris  ? " 

"  Five,  gen'men,"  grunted  the  figure  on  the  seat  above 
them.  They  emptied  pockets  and  added  up.  "  By  hom- 
iny !  "  whispered  Johnny,  "  we  haven't  enough  to  pay  our 
way  to  here." 

"  Get  him  to  trust  us." 

"  On  the  last  day  of  college !     Watch  him !  " 

"  Let's  beat  it." 

"  Dirty  trick  to  cheat  him.  Maybe  we'll  see  some  one 
we  can  borrow  from.     There's  Banny  Brand  now." 

A  preternaturally  slender  youth  was  balancing  himself 
beside  the  lamp-post  at  the  corner  of  the  green.  As  they 
watched,  his  legs  buckled  beneath  him,  then  snapped  up 
again,  one  at  a  time.  When  his  legs  straightened,  his  back 
bent  like  a  knife  blade.  "  I'm  a  jack-knife,"  he  was  an- 
nouncing to  the  night. 

"  Tight  as  a  fool,"  Johnnie  shouted. 

"  Bescue !  Bescue !  "  They  poured  from  the  hack, 
caught  the  jack-knife  just  as  it  snapped,  and  bore  it  back 
to  the  carriage.  "  Close  me  up,"  whispered  the  jack-knife. 
They  shut  him  up  and  deposited  him  snoring  on  the  floor. 

Bobert  Boberts  subsided  from  hysterical  laughter  to  feel 
a  shiver  of  disgust  at  the  sodden  body  lying  about  his  feet. 
"  I'll  never  be  like  thai"  he  resolved.  Johnny  was  busy 
in  its  pockets.  He  emerged  with  a  roll.  "  I'll  keep  it 
safe  for  him,"  he  whispered,  took  a  five-dollar  bill,  wrote, 
"  Please  put  me  to  bed,"  on  a  note-sheet,  and  pinned  both 
to  the  limp  form.  "  120  Lancaster  Street,  Morris,"  he 
called ;  and  then  silently  slid  over  the  back  of  their  chariot. 


20  OUE  HOUSE 

They  followed  him  one  by  one,  suppressing  their  laughter 
as  the  hack  rolled  away  with  its  paying  guest;  then  beat 
each  other  on  the  back  and  roared  till  the  "  cop  "  on  the 
corner  began  to  swing  his  night  stick  and  move  toward 
them.  "  Follow  on/'  sang  Johnny.  They  ranged  behind 
him,  hands  on  shoulders,  in  file  from  little  Johnny  to  long 
Dug  Duckins.     "  Follow  on,"  they  caught  step  — 

"  Follow  on,  follow  on 
The  while  this  light  you  see. 
But  they  never  pro-ceed 
To  follow  that  light, 
But  always  follow  me. 
Follow  on—" 

Shouting  the  chorus  they  tramped  under  the  campus 
archway,  and  up  the  dark  stone  stairs  of  the  dormitory, 
where  wakened  sleepers  grumbled  and  swore  at  them,  until 
they  burst  open  the  door  of  Eobert  Roberts'  rooms,  broke 
rank,  and  flung  themselves  in  a  wild  tangle  of  legs  and 
arms  upon  the  broad  window  seat,  in  the  starlit  fragrance 
of  the  wistaria  blooms  that  hung  above  the  open  casements. 

The  chapel  clock  rang  its  chimes,  paused  for  breath,  then 
struck  the  twelve  booming  strokes  of  midnight.  "  To-mor- 
row, boys,"  said  Johnny  sententiously,  "  we'll  be  alumni." 
They  smoked  on  in  silence ;  but  Eobert  Roberts  squirmed 
uneasily  and  buried  his  face  in  cool  wistaria  blossoms. 
He  did  not  want  to  think  of  what  would  happen  after 
to-morrow.     The  family,  and  Cousin  Jenny,  and  the  rest, 

—  it  was  going  to  be  mighty  pleasant  to  see  them  again, 

—  he  could  taste  chicken  and  waffles  in  his  imagination, 
and  hear  the  measured  tick  of  the  old  clock  through  the 
comfortable  peace  of  summer  time  at  home;  but  to  live  in 
Millingtown,  to  work  in  Millingtown!  Nothing  there 
seemed  to  fit  in  with  his  dreams. 

Johnny  too  was  restless.     "  Don't  pass  away,  boys,"  he 


THE  "ROCK"  21 

pleaded.  "  I  want  to  talk.  I'm  getting  low  in  my  mind." 
He  reached  over  to  tickle  Dug,  who  had  stretched  himself 
across  two  windows  with  one  leg  hanging  negligently  into 
the  night.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  next  year,  old 
bean-pole  ?  "  he  asked  sarcastically  as  the  long  body  knotted 
and  contorted.  "  Don't  bother  to  answer.  I  know  you'll 
find  a  job  that  won't  get  you  up  before  nine  in  the  morning. 
Spike,  how  about  you  ?  " 

"  Soap  business,"  Spike  answered  curtly  from  his  mor- 
ris chair. 

Johnny's  voice  grew  more  ironic.  il  The  soap  business ! 
—  and  at  fifty  you'll  be  a  greasy  millionaire  who'll  talk 
of  nothing  but  fats.  And  Bill  will  be  a  banker  with  gray 
spats  and  side-whiskers.  Why  in  thunder  can't  some  of 
you  fellows  do  something  interesting  ?  " 

Eobert  Eoberts  sat  up  indignantly,  for  no  one  could  run 
down  Bill  in  his  presence.  And  it  was  rotten  of  Johnny 
to  be  sarcastic  on  the  last  night.  The  romance  of  perfect 
friendship  in  his  heart  was  ruffled  as  if  by  a  bitter  breeze. 
"  Gee,  but  you're  a  knocker,  Johnny !  What  are  you  going 
to  do  yourself  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Johnny  calmly.  "  At  least  nothing 
that  Spike  and  Dug  would  call  doing  anything.  I'll  have 
an  income  after  to-morrow  from  a  trust  fund,  and  I'm 
going  to  live  on  it." 

They  listened  in  amazement. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  work  ?  "  cried  Spike  in  horror. 
"Why  it—" 

"  Isn't  done,  is  it,"  said  Johnny. 

Dug  rolled  himself  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"  I  believe  in  working  so  as  to  be  able  to  enjoy  the  fun 
afterward,"  he  remarked  philosophically. 

"  Like  getting  dirty  in  order  to  enjoy  a  bath,"  said 
Johnny  imperturbably.     He  liked  to  make  his  keen  mind 


22  OUK  HOUSE 

play   over   and    around    the    prejudices    of   his   friends. 

Bill  spoke  at  last.  "  You'll  get  tired  of  a  good  time, 
Johnny  Bolt." 

Johnny  turned  on  him,  rejoiced  at  stirring  up  a  real  ad- 
versary. "  Not  half  so  tired  as  you  will  of  drudging,"  he 
answered  vehemently.  "  I  intend  to  enjoy  life  while  I 
can  appreciate  it.  What's  the  use  of  spending  the  best  part 
of  your  time  making  money,  and  then  stopping  when  it's 
too  late  to  buy  anything  you  really  want  with  it  ?  Look 
at  the  middle-aged  American  business  man  who  has  gotten 
rich.  What  does  he  know  about  enjoying  himself? 
What's  he  good  for  except  making  more  money  ?  I'm  not 
going  to  be  that  kind.  I  intend  to  live  first  and  work 
afterward." 

Spike  grunted  skeptically. 

"  At  all  events,"  Johnny  said  rather  finely,  "  I'm  going 
to  live." 

Robert  Roberts  felt  the  hot  blood  rush  to  his  forehead. 
He  wanted  to  fling  himself  into  the  argument,  and  yet  he 
could  not  choose  his  side.  Every  principle  he  had  was  on 
the  side  of  Bill  and  Dug  and  Spike.  But  Johnny's  philos- 
ophy stirred  a  whirlwind  of  hidden  desires. 

"  How  can  a  fellow  make  anything  of  himself,"  he  ven- 
tured timidly,  "  if  he  doesn't  try  to  accomplish  something  ? 
What  are  you  going  to  he — a  '  sport '  ?  " 

Johnny's  cigarette  flashed  into  whiteness.  "  What  are 
you  going  to  be  ?  "  he  lashed  in  return.  "  You're  going 
back  to  that  eminently  respectable  town  of  yours,  with  all 
your  cousins  and  your  aunts, —  where  everybody's  nice, 
and  nobody  cares  a  darn  for  anything  but  Millingtown. 
And  you're  going  into  the  real  estate  business,  aren't  you, 
and  marry  some  female  cousin, —  and  raise  a  family  of  lit- 
tle cousins ;  —  and  know  all  about  the  real  estate  business 
and  nothing  else ;  —  and  die  respectable.     That's  what 


THE  "ROCK"  23 

you  are  planning  to  do  and  be,  Eob  Roberts,  isn't  it  ?  I 
like  my  way  better." 

"Hold  on,  Johnny,"  Bill  whispered.  "Don't  get  so 
personal." 

But  Robert  Roberts  was  moved  too  deeply  for  offense. 
"  You're  wrong,"  he  cried  hotly.  "  You  don't  know  what 
I'm  planning." 

"  Well,  what  in  thunder  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  Johnny 
spoke  with  real  curiosity,  so  that  even  Dug  and  Spike  saw 
that  this  question  was  the  goal  of  the  conversation.  They 
were  curious  themselves.  Robert  Roberts  was  such  a 
queer,  mooney,  intense  sort  of  a  fellow,  and  yet  quick  as 
lightning.  You  couldn't  help  wondering  what  he  was  go- 
ing to  tackle. 

Robert  Roberts  was  not  ready  for  the  question.  It 
crystallized  a  hundred  formless  resolves  and  left  them  float- 
ing aimlessly  in  a  sea  of  doubt.  His  sensitive  face  worked 
painfully.  "  I'm  going  to  live  too,"  he  cried  a  little 
wildly,  and  not  even  Johnny  guessed  that  just  what  "  live  " 
meant  was  still  to  him  only  a  fascinating  mystery.  "  But 
I'm  going  to  make  my  work  a  part  of  my  living.  I  don't 
know  how  yet  —  but  I  shall  find  out." 

"  In  real  estate  ? "  asked  Johnny  drily,  with  a  lurking 
intensity  of  question. 

From  the  confusion  of  his  thoughts  a  resolve,  dim,  un- 
formed but  powerful,  rose  into  Robert's  speech.  "  I'm 
not  going  into  the  real  estate  business  —  or  any  business 
—  at  least  not  for  long."  He  spoke  with  firmness  and  a 
sudden  lightening  of  the  heart. 

"  You're  a  darn  fool,"  Spike  commented  drowsily.  "  I 
wish  I  had  such  a  job  to  step  into.  Unless,  of  course, 
you've  got  something  else  up  your  sleeve." 

Robert  Roberts  had  nothing  else  up  his  sleeve.  He 
was  face  to  face  with  life,  burning  to  try  it,  and  without 


24  OUK  HOUSE 

the  slightest  idea  how  to  take  hold.  A  base  terror  filled 
him.  He  longed  to  stay  here  where  the  chapel  bell  pressed 
back  the  whirl  of  onrushing  time, —  he  longed  to  think  it 
all  out  a  little  further  before  necessity  made  him  act. 
He  envied  Bill  —  solid,  quiet,  seeing  his  path  and  ready 
to  follow  it.  His  own  way  was  as  well-marked  as  Bill's  — 
but  it  led  in  the  wrong  direction. 

"  Bill, —  you  know  the  family  and  what  they  believe  in, 
—  what  would  you  do  in  my  place  ? "  he  asked  at  last  in 
the  quiet. 

Johnny  struck  a  match.  "  Bill's  asleep,  Spike's  asleep, 
Dug's  asleep,"  he  said  with  kindly  contempt.  "  It's  a 
passing-away  party.  But  there's  no  use  in  asking  Bill  or 
any  of  them,  Bob.  You  and  I  have  to  settle  our  own 
hashes.  We're  not  like  the  rest.  They  fit  in  with  things- 
as-they-are.  We  don't."  Kobert  Koberts  heard  him  in 
astonishment.  So  this  was  the  sincerity  that  lay  below 
cynical,  lazy  little  Johnny.  u  I'll  go  my  way,  you  yours," 
he  added  almost  solemnly.  "  We'll  see  who  gets  there 
first.     Maybe  neither." 

Bobert  felt  very  humble  and  very  young.  "  I  guess 
I  haven't  thought  out  things  as  well  as  you,"  he  said  with 
some  embarrassment.     "  You  made  me  realize  it  just  now." 

Johnny's  voice  had  a  note  of  pride.  "  I  cross-examined 
you,  my  boy.  I'm  going  to  be  a  lawyer  when  I  get  tired 
of  other  ways  of  enjoying  life." 

"  And  a  rotten  one  you'll  be,"  said  Spike,  waking  up. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  corrupting  Bobert  Boberts'  young 
mind  and  trying  to  make  a  drunken  loafer  of  him! 
Bough-house !  Bough-house !  "  He  rolled  to  the  floor, 
pulling  Dug  and  Johnny  with  him.  The  rest  piled  on, 
kicking  and  scrambling  in  a  tangled  happy  mass  of  legs 
and  heads  and  arms  until  breath  was  lost  in  laughter, 
strength  gone  into  lassitude,  and  the  weariness  of  mirth 
suggested  sleep. 


CHAPTER  in 

HOME 

IN  New  York  the  next  day,  the  "  crowd,"  who  had  come 
thus  far  together,  escorted  Robert  Roberts  to  the  ferry, 
for  he  was  the  first  to  leave.  An  instinctive  terror  of  any- 
thing that  called  for  a  show  of  the  emotions  made  him 
dread  the  moment  of  parting.  But  Johnny  Bolt  eased  the 
situation  by  waving  a  tiny  flag  in  the  faces  of  the  bewild- 
ered immigrants  huddled  in  the  waiting-room,  with  pointed 
references  to  a  volunteer  for  the  war  in  Cuba.  Neverthe- 
less, Robert  Roberts  looked  back  over  the  foaming  wake  of 
the  boat  at  the  well-loved  figures,  with  a  melancholy  realiza- 
tion that  this  was  the  end,  and  he  seated  himself  by  his  car 
window  in  a  depression  that  he  did  not  try  to  shake  off. 

But  soon  the  feeling  of  going  home  began  to  steal  over 
him  with  its  usual  relaxing  force.  There  was  nothing  else 
quite  like  it  —  that  sense  of  running  swiftly,  quietly 
through  New  Jersey  meadows  toward  the  old  house  where 
they  were  already  waiting  for  him  —  home,  where  every 
one  and  everything  was  so  comfortable,  where  he  would 
soon  be  basking  in  an  atmosphere  of  appreciation  and  lov- 
ing care.  He  wanted  to  be  home  by  supper  time,  to  sit 
down  with  them  in  the  familiar  dining-room  and  eat  real 
food  again,  to  tell  them  all  he  had  done  at  Commencement 
and  hear  the  home  news. 

He  dozed  a  little,  until  the  rattling  passage  of  the  Dela- 
ware River  bridge  awoke  him  with  a  start.  As  they  passed 
into  Pennsylvania  he  looked  for  and  saw  the  first  of  the 
gray  stone  houses  like  those  of  his  own  country;  he  saw 

25 


26  OUR  HOUSE 

the  white  oaks  spreading  their  circles  of  shade  on  the  hay 
lands,  the  tulip  poplars  towering  above  ferny  shadows  at 
the  edge  of  the  woods.  The  difference  between  this  rich 
countryside  with  its  smooth  fields,  its  ordered  groves  of  old 
trees,  and  stony,  scrubby  New  England  struck  him  as  never 
before.  Its  placid  beauty  stirred  memories  of  the  farm 
on  the  Brandywine  where  he  had  spent  so  many  summers, 
of  dewy  mornings  when  he  hunted  birds'  eggs  in  the 
thickets  while  the  wood  thrush  sang.  It  was  good  to  see 
his  own  land,  his  home. 

Was  it  going  to  be  so  comfortable  there  after  all?  A 
pang  of  misgiving  sent  his  memory  wandering  back  to  an- 
other dewy  morning,  in  the  vague  distance  of  his  childhood. 
Some  whimsical  resolution  had  roused  him  in  the  faint 
twilight  of  early  dawn.  He  remembered  how  he  had 
dressed  timidly  and  stolen  down  through  the  dark  house, 
quivering  when  the  stairs  creaked  above  his  mother's  door, 
trembling  a  little  in  the  dark  hall,  until  the  gray  obscurity 
shaped  into  the  familiar  lines  of  the  side  table  and  the 
Chippendale  chairs  beside  it,  vaguely  lit  through  the 
frosted  panes  of  the  vestibule.  And  then,  as  he  pushed 
open  the  heavy  door,  came  the  sudden  revelation  of  the 
outer  world  brightening  under  the  dawn,  but  cool  and  dim 
and  quiet  and  strange.  He  remembered  how  when  he  had 
climbed  to  his  seat  in  the  cedar  tree,  and  looked  awfully 
at  the  empty  windows  of  the  silent  house  above  him,  and 
seen  the  gray  tramp-cats  skulking  through  the  garden,  and 
the  wild  birds  feeding  on  the  porch  itself,  a  curious  sense 
had  come  over  him  that  the  daytime  world  of  father  and 
mother  and  our  house  was  not  entirely  real.  He  had  sat 
there  thinking  until  the  first  street-car  jingled  down  the 
street,  and  George  came  out  whistling  to  wash  the  pave- 
ments. 

He  saw  now  that  this  curious  unreasoning  skepticism 


HOME  27 

had  never  entirely  left  him.  Sometimes,  the  friendly 
world  of  home  had  wrapped  him  so  closely  round  that  for 
months  he  would  fling  himself  whole-heartedly  into  his 
life  —  trying  to  do  well  at  school,  trying  to  stand  well 
among  his  friends,  trying  to  please  the  girls  who  danced 
with  him  at  dancing  class,  or  passed  him  with  pigtails  flut- 
tering on  the  way  to  school.  And  then  a  book,  or  distant 
music,  or  just  the  sight  of  a  face  in  a  train  passing  through 
Millingtown,  would  charge  his  mind  with  doubts  and  as- 
pirations for  the  reality  he  always  sought,  vague  but  pain- 
fully urgent.  As  he  sat  now  in  his  car,  rolling  homeward, 
all  college  life  behind  him,  he  felt  the  old  doubt  rise  again, 
and  this  time  it  began  to  be  intelligible. 

So  little  in  these  four  years  had  really  touched  his  life! 
A  few  books,  a  few  experiences,  friendship, —  he  had  a 
sudden  revelation  that  all  the  rest  had  slid  over  his  mind, 
polishing  it  without  penetrating.  And  would  it  be  better 
in  Millingtown?  He  remembered  Johnny's  "  Your  cous- 
ins and  your  aunts."  Like  pictures  on  a  screen  he  saw  in 
imagination  the  whole  routine  of  home  —  a  life  where 
there  was  nothing  vivid,  nothing  that  called  to  the  depths 
of  one's  nature,  nothing  real.  Even  his  father  and  mother 
could  not  give  him  what  he  wanted.  They  were  real  for 
each  other ;  they  could  be  only  father  and  mother  for  him. 

His  brain  grew  tired  of  analyses,  and  slid  off  into  dream- 
ing. What  if  he  should  stay  in  this  train  and  go  south- 
ward as  far  as  his  money  would  take  him;  then,  dropping 
his  name  and  identity,  step  off  somewhere  in  a  distant 
state,  and  see  for  himself  what  life  was  like  outside  his 
world  of  safe  conventionality  ?  He  would  pawn  the  extra 
suit  in  his  bag,  and  his  watch,  and  walk  the  street,  savor- 
ing experience  and  learning  what  men  were  like  in  the 
rough  until  his  money  was  gone ;  then  get  work  —  say  on 
a  cotton  plantation, —  where  he  would  discover  that, —  well, 


28  OUR  HOUSE 

something  done  to  the  plants  would  make  them  flourish  — 
and  be  brought  up  to  the  house  for  consultation  where  he 
would  find  a  guest  of  the  family  who  would  be  —  of  course, 
Katherine  Gray.  And  then  back  to  Millingtown  with  the 
taste  of  real  experience  in  his  mouth,  and  the  question  of 
self-dependence  settled  for  good  — 

"  Millingtown,"  the  brakeman  called.  He  sat  up  hur- 
riedly, saw  the  first  monotonous  rows  of  brick  houses,  each 
block  alike,  then  the  sun  flashing  from  the  courthouse  spire 
on  the  hill,  and  the  mill  stacks  high  and  luminous  in  the 
clear  air.  As  they  slid  into  the  station  he  recognized  fa- 
miliar faces,  heard,  as  he  stepped  out,  familiar  voices  in 
the  crowd.  Some  one  slapped  him  on  the  back ;  it  was  old 
Jim  Euggins  from  school.  And  there  was  Jenny  Warden, 
waving  to  him,  and  shaking  both  her  hands  over  the  heads 
between  them.  In  spite  of  all,  it  was  good  to  be  home. 
The  weight  of  misgiving  rolled  off  his  buoyant  spirits. 
He  straightened  his  new  banded  tie  —  knowing  that  the 
style  had  not  yet  reached  Millingtown  —  shoved  his  pipe 
into  his  mouth,  caught  up  his  bag,  and  hurried  for  the 
car,  anxious  to  present  the  proper  appearance  of  a  metro- 
politan college  youth ;  most  eager  to  get  to  "  our  house  " 
and  see  them  sitting  there,  waiting  on  the  porch  for  him 
to  come  home. 

After  supper  they  carried  their  chairs  to  the  lawn  be- 
neath the  green  gloom  of  the  big  Norway  maple,  while 
Robert  Roberts  talked.  His  mother  was  his  best  auditor. 
Her  ready  sympathy  extended  to  boat-races,  games,  his 
friends,  his  least  action.  His  father  read  and  smoked, 
except  when  his  wife  called  to  him,  "  Now  do  listen, 
John  " ;  but  he  heard  more  than  was  apparent.  Only  the 
habit  of  the  evening  paper  restrained  him  from  listening 


HOME  29 

outright.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  listen  to  Robert  Roberts. 
All  his  joy  in  living  came  out  in  his  eager  narrative,  for 
he  told  only  of  the  experiences  that  had  been  joyful  and 
that  others  would  enjoy.  His  morbid  forebodings  were 
forgotten. 

At  nine  the  approach  of  irrelevant  callers  gave  him  an 
excuse  to  wander  off  into  the  garden.  The  moonlight  lay 
heavy  on  the  flowers;  the  night  was  rich  with  odors; 
and  Cousin  Jenny's  mockingbird  from  its  cage  sang  en- 
trancingly.  He  stopped  by  his  cedar  tree  to  breathe  in 
the  sounds  and  smells  of  June  at  home.  Faint  laughter 
from  behind  the  trees'  mysterious  shadows  raised  his  eyes 
across  the  moonlit  terrace  to  a  porch  where  perhaps  —  as 
last  June  —  Katherine  Gray  was  sitting.  Old  Powder 
came  bounding  from  somewhere,  wfithed  about  him  in  joy- 
ful recognition,  and  licked  his  hand.  His  mother's  just- 
heard  voice  was  very  sweet  to  his  ears.  He  was  steeped 
in  well-being,  and  content  with  home. 

Soon  he  heard  the  strangers  leaving,  then  a  step,  and  his 
father's  voice  beside  him  in  the  dark.  "  Mother's  gone  up 
to  get  thy  room  ready.  Have  a  cigar  before  thee  goes  to 
bed « " 

He  declined,  but  the  consciousness  that  his  father  had 
never  before  offered  him  a  cigar  in  such  an  offhand  fashion, 
filled  him  with  pride  and  foreboding.  He  did  not  feel  like 
responsibility  to-night.     He  was  so  content  with  home. 

His  father  smoked  on  in  silence  until  Robert  Roberts 
grew  uncomfortable.  After  the  profuse  talk  of  the  supper 
table,  there  seemed  to  be  something  unnatural  in  their  lack 
of  conversation.  He  had  never  noticed  before  how  inex- 
pressive his  father  was  when  off  the  beaten  track. 

"  It's  a  bully  night,"  the  boy  said  tentatively. 

John  Roberts  assented.     "  That  shed  roof  will  have  to 


30  OUK  HOUSE 

be  returned,"  he  added  with  seeming  irrelevance.  "  And 
this  lawn  ought  to  be  remade,  when  I  get  round  to  it.  The 
fence  needs  painting  too." 

Robert  Roberts  realized  dimly  that  he  was  being  taken 
into  his  father's  confidence  as  heir  and  prospective  resi- 
dent.    He  was  pleased. 

"  Perhaps  if  Mother  and  I  don't  go  to  Cape  May  this 
summer,  I  can  manage  the  shed  and  the  fence  in  the  Fall," 
his  father  continued,  with  an  affected  lightness  of  tone. 

"  Don't  go  to  Cape  May !  "  Robert  Roberts  swung  upon 
him  in  surprise.  They  always  went  to  Cape  May. 
"  Why,  I  supposed  — "  he  hesitated  while  his  whirling 
thoughts  tried  to  adapt  themselves  to  these  new  conditions, 
"that  we  were  all  going  down." 

His  father  shuffled  his  feet,  then  spoke  apologetically. 
"  Business  hasn't  been  very  good,  Rob.  I'm  pretty  short 
this  summer.  Thy  graduation  thee  knows,  and  then  our 
house  is  expensive  to  run  —  and  business  isn't  what  it  used 
to  be."  He  hesitated,  and  even  in  the  moonlight  Robert 
could  see  his  gaunt  face  blush  as  he  remembered  vaguely 
he  had  blushed  last  year  when  the  Christmas  check  had  to 
be  cut  in  half.  "  In  fact,"  he  continued  painfully,  "  I'll 
have  to  stop  thy  allowance,  now  thee's  going  to  work." 
He  laughed,  "I'll  give  thee  a  job  instead  that  will  pay 
thee  better." 

Faint,  far-off  dreams  that  had  never  seen  the  light  and 
yet  were  more  real  than  home  itself  stirred  and  paled  in 
Robert  Roberts'  brain.  "  I  wanted  this  summer,"  he  stam- 
mered, "  to  think  things  out."  Hoav  could  he  explain 
what  he  himself  scarcely  understood !  The  sense  of  a 
sudden  unexpected  crisis  overwhelmed  him.  "  I  don't 
know  yet  what  I  want  to  do,"  he  cried  with  sudden  in- 
tensity. 

His  father  laughed  again,  a  little  vaguely.     "  There 


HOME  31 

isn't  much  choice  at  the  beginning,  Rob,"  he  said,  "es- 
pecially when  times  are  bad.  Thee  can  make  ten  dollars  a 
week,  and  help  me  out  in  the  office  at  the  same  time  — 
that's  something,  isn't  it  ?     When  business  is  better  — " 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  go  into  business,"  said  Robert 
Roberts,  and  then  bit  his  lips.  It  seemed  ungenerous  to 
blurt  it  out  when  the  family  was  in  trouble. 

His  father  turned  upon  him  quickly.  "  Don't  want  to 
go  into  business !  What  do  you  want  to  do  ?  "  he  asked 
with  sudden  misgiving. 

The  boy  did  not  answer.  His  mind  was  desperately 
hunting  a  reason  for  delay  that  would  seem  a  reason  in  the 
face  of  necessity.  "  Then  I've  got  to  go  to  work  —  now  8  " 
he  said  at  last. 

John  Roberts  was  surprised  and  annoyed.  "  You've  got 
to  make  your  living,"  he  answered  huskily.  "  I've  got 
more  —  more  than  I  can  carry  now."  They  walked  back 
in  silence  to  the  house. 

Robert  Roberts  undressed  slowly  in  his  old  room,  noting 
subconsciously  the  familiar  pictures,  his  own  books,  his 
souvenirs.  But  he  saw  them  dimly,  for  his  active  senses 
were  for  the  first  time  busy  with  a  grim  obscure  necessity 
lying  back  of  the  comfortable  order  of  our  house.  The 
problem  of  subsistence  for  him,  for  them  all,  had  tripped 
him,  naive  and  unaware.     It  was  a  reality,  new  and  harsh. 


CHAPTER  IV 

COMPROMISE 

WARM  sunlight  and  the  merry  chatter  of  a  wren 
foraging  in  the  Virginia  Creeper  that  hung  over  the 
deep  embrasure  of  his  window  awoke  him.  He  stretched 
in  delicious  drowsiness,  blissfully  indifferent  of  the  hour, 
then  heard  retreating  footsteps  and  called,  "  Hello." 

His  mother  opened  the  door  and  smiled  down  upon  him. 
"  Thee  needn't  get  up,  Rob,"  she  whispered.  "  I  want 
thee  to  sleep  late  all  this  week ;  —  father  wants  thee  to 
rest."  Her  emphasis  upon  the  last  words  recalled  to 
Robert  Roberts  the  conflict  of  the  night  before.  In  an 
instant  his  drowsiness  was  gone.  He  raised  himself  to 
kiss  her,  and  then  lay  with  closed  eyes  trying  to  realize 
that  this  was  the  crisis.  But  it  was  easier  to  dream  and 
eujoy  the  peace,  the  birds,  the  distant  noises  of  the  kitchen, 
the  faint  smells  of  coffee  and  browning  cakes.  Mother  and 
father  had  talked.  His  father  meant  to  be  kind.  After 
breakfast  he  would  think  it  out.  It  was  ten  when  he 
opened  his  eyes  again. 

After  breakfast  he  lit  his  pipe  and  walked  into  the  gar- 
den behind  the  house,  which  with  the  back  yards  of  all  the 
other  houses  on  the  block  made  the  "  park  "  for  which 
"  our  square  "  was  famous  in  Millingtown.  But  he  could 
not  fix  his  thoughts  that  wandered  relaxed  after  the  ten- 
sity of  his  last  college  week.  Never  was  stern  necessity 
better  disguised  than  in  the  old  gray  house  above  him  that 
had  always  meant  comfort  and  leisure  and  peace.  A  dis- 
agreeable idea  crept  into  his  mind.     With  all  this  comfort, 

32 


COMPEOMISE  33 

they  could  not  be  so  very  hard  up.  Was  his  father  bluff- 
ing ?  He  put  it  from  him  in  disgust,  knowing  the  thought 
was  unworthy.  Nevertheless  it  was  easier  to  meditate 
on  what  home  had  meant  to  him  than  to  face  the  long- 
deferred  problem  of  what  he  should  do.  His  mind  slid 
away  from  it,  and  just  as  he  brought  it  back,  George  came 
over  in  his  plaid  apron  to  show  off  the  new  chickens.  "  I 
can't  think  here,"  he  groaned,  and  hurried  down  to  the 
rose  garden  at  the  bottom  of  the  yard. 

As  he  stepped  beneath  the  arch  of  crimson  ramblers  into 
the  little  wilderness  of  roses  that  separated  Cousin  Jenny's 
yard  from  theirs,  somebody  blinded  his  eyes  from  behind, 
then  kissed  him  on  both  ears.  He  flung  himself  free,  and 
faced  —  Cousin  Jenny.  She  was  dressed  in  the  rusty 
black  he  always  associated  with  her,  and  the  collar  of  fine 
lace-that  always  accompanied  it.  Her  eyes  were  sparkling 
with  animation,  and  her  dear  ugly  old  face  was  beaming. 
"If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  bones  in  my  fingers  thee  would 
have  thought  a  girl  kissed  thee,  wouldn't  thee,  Kobbie  dear  ? 
Just  stand  there  till  I  look  thee  all  over !  " 

Robert  Roberts  hated  being  kissed  by  cousins,  but 
Cousin  Jenny  was  an  exception.  He  posed  for  an  instant 
with  chin  up  and  one  foot  forward,  as  he  used  to  do  when 
he  was  photographed  in  childhood,  then  ran  in  and  kissed 
her  dear  old  hairy  face. 

"  Don't  hug  me,  Rob,"  she  cried.  "  I'm  seventy  years 
old.  I'll  break.  What  a  hoy  thee  is,  in  spite  of  being  of 
age."  She  stroked  his  arm  fondly.  "  I  knew  thy  grand- 
father when  he  was  twenty-one.  He  was  a  man  to  be 
proud  of.  And  thee'll  be  worthy  of  him."  She  patted 
his  shoulder.  "  Good  gracious.  There's  a  cat  after  my 
mockingbird  !     Run,  boy,  run !  " 

When  he  came  back  after  chasing  the  cat  through  the 
Taggerts'  hedge,  he  found  Cousin  Jenny  snapping  cater- 


34  OUK  HOUSE 

pillars  from  the  rose  bushes.  "  These  are  thy  mothers 
roses,"  she  was  saying,  "  but  they're  my  caterpillars.  I 
know  them  by  the  way  they  eat.  Thee  should  see  my 
peonies."  Suddenly  she  turned  upon  him.  "  Is  thee 
glad  to  be  home  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Eobert  Roberts. 

The  old  lady  shook  her  head.  "  Thee  doesn't  know 
what  thy  home  means  yet,  Robbie.  Thee  won't  until 
thee's  as  old  as  I  am,  and  has  lived  where  people  aren't  — 
friendly.  For  thirty  years  I've  been  in  my  house  all  alone 
and  yet  thy  folks  have  never  let  me  be  lonely.  Thy  mother 
runs  over  every  morning  to  see  how  I've  slept ;  and  there's 
Cousin  Mattie  who  reads  to  me ;  and  the  Taggert  girls  that 
I  love  as  if  they  were  my  own  kin  —  and  all  the  men 
cousins.  I  don't  believe  any  place  in  the  world  is  so 
friendly  as  Millingtown.  Did  thy  mother  ever  tell  thee 
how  many  worked  on  her  wedding-quilt?  Seventy-nine. 
And  fifty  of  them  are  alive  and  we're  all  friends  still." 
She  sighed  reminiscently.  "  Many's  the  time  I've  sat 
down  to  tea  with  twenty  cousins  in  thy  house.  Oh,  Robbie, 
there  aren't  many  homes  like  this  one.  Thy  mother  found 
it  so.  I  remember  when  she  was  a  girl,  and  first  came  to 
Sunday  supper  at  thy  house;  and  how  she  blushed  when 
thy  grandfather  said,  '  Sarah  Marshall,  thee  isn't  eating 
enough.     Is  thee  pining  ? '  " 

"  Was  my  mother  —  pretty  ?  "  asked  Robert  Roberts. 

"  Isn't  she  now  ?  "  Cousin  Jenny  whisked  back  at  him, 
but  relented  when  she  saw  his  confusion.  He  had  never 
thought  of  his  mother  as  pretty  or  not  pretty  before  —  she 
was  just  mother.  "  She  was  lovely,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"  And  though  we  used  to  think  Philadelphia  people  were  a 
little  queer,  she  was  so  sweet  and  friendly  and  good  that 
we  loved  her.  Why,  Rob,"  her  tone  deepened  and  her  eyes 
looked  back  into  the  past,  "  I  stood  on  this  very  spot  in 


COMPROMISE  35 

the  dark  and  cried  my  eyes  out  the  night  thee  was  born, 
when  every  one  thought  she  was  going  to  die.  1  could 
hear  her  poor  little  weak  voice  whispering,  '  Let  me  see 
my  baby ' ;  and  thy  father  sobbing  up  above  there.  I 
hated  thee,  Robert  Roberts,  that  night."  Her  voice  trem- 
bled with  memory. 

Robert  Roberts  felt  his  own  throat  grow  tight.  It  was 
the  thought  of  his  father  sobbing  that  did  it.  He  felt 
suddenly  tender  toward  him,  and  passionately  devoted  to 
his  mother. 

Cousin  Jenny  seated  herself  on  the  garden  bench.  "  I 
tell  thee,  Robert  Roberts,"  she  said  a  little  bitterly,  "  only 
an  old  maid  knows  what  a  boy  owes  to  his  mother."  She 
looked  at  him  sharply.  "  Thy  time  for  paying  is  come. 
Thy  mother's  wrapped  up  in  thee.  Thy  father  needs  thy 
help." 

The  boy  dropped  his  eyes  and  dug  one  heel  into  the  turf. 
He  was  too  moved  to  put  her  off  with  college  jesting.  "  I 
know  it,"  he  answered  passionately.  u  I  want  to  please 
them.  But  I  don't  want  to  go  into  business.  I  don't 
think  I'll  be  much  good  that  way.  I  want  to  find  some- 
thing that  —  that  suits  me;  where  I  can  make  something 
of  myself,  and  — "  his  voice  dropped  — "  live."  He  shot 
a  wan  glance  of  humor  at  Cousin  Jenny.  "  Isn't  a  suc- 
cessful son  what  fond  parents  like  best  ?  " 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense !  "  cried  the  old  lady.  "  What 
they  want  is  you, —  is  a  child  in  the  house.  Will  it  be 
success  for  them  if  thee  gallivants  off  trying  to  find  out 
what  the  world  is  made  of  while  they  grow  older  and  lone- 
lier at  home  ?  And  does  thee  think,  Robert  Roberts,  that 
thee'll  better  thyself  by  leaving  them?  There  never  was 
a  Roberts  without  some  brains,  and  I've  no  doubt  thee'll 
make  thy  way  wherever  thee  goes;  but  does  thee  think 
thee'll  find  anything  out  there  better  than  this — "     She 


36  OUR  HOUSE 

swept  her  hand  toward  the  row  of  old  gray  houses  basking 
in  the  morning  sunlight.  His  eyes  followed  hers.  He 
felt  the  peace,  the  security,  the  comfort  of  "  our  square," 
and  knew  that  she  meant  more  than  the  beauty  of  the 
maple  shadows  on  the  lawn,  and  the  luxuriant  vines  climb- 
ing over  cool  back  porches  and  flaunting  above  gray  stone 
chimneys  at  the  streets  without. 

"  The  place  for  thee  to  succeed  is  at  home,"  she  said. 
"  Turn  thy  hand  to  whatever  thy  father  offers  thee.  Then 
thee'll  make  him  happy  and  thyself  too.  That's  more 
manly  and  more  sensible  than  a  i  foray  into  the  unknown  ' 

—  whatever  that  may  mean." 

Eobert  Eoberts  was  startled.  "  Did  thee  read  that  ?  " 
he  asked  guiltily.  He  thought  that  no  one  but  his  mother 
saw  the  college  magazine. 

"  I  did  —  and  thought  to  myself,  '  colts  will  try  to  kick 
over  the  traces.'  But  not  now,  Robbie;  not  when  thee 
hasn't  learned  what  home  means ;  not  when  thy  father's  in 
trouble.  Not  now  —  Good  gracious !  "  she  cried.  "  I 
smell  my  preserves  boiling  over.     Run !  " 

He  strolled  back  through  the  shimmering  heat  of  the 
forenoon,  chewing  the  end  of  new  and  moving  thoughts. 
"  Not  when  your  father  is  in  trouble."  What  did  that 
mean?  Somehow  his  father  seemed  more  like  a  friend, 
like  Bill  or  Johnny,  since  Cousin  Jenny's  story. 

It  would  be  interesting  —  if  he  were  really  needed  — 
to  take  that  harsh,  strange  business  world  by  the  throat, 
and  win  a  place  in  the  family  and  Millingtown.  That  at 
least  would  be  reality.  And  it  would  be  comfortable  — 
so  he  thought  as  his  mind  drooped  toward  the  easiest  way 

—  to  live  here  in  his  own  room  at  home,  getting  to  know 
his  parents  as  real  people,  as  companions,  with  friendli- 
ness and  comfort  all  about.  After  all,  as  Johnny  Bolt 
said,  living  was  as  important  as  doing.     He  did  not  notice 


COMPROMISE  37 

that  the  sense  of  "  living  "  had  changed  since  he  last  ut- 
tered it. 

A  monotonous  clicking  came  from  the  grape  arbor  be- 
side him.  Some  one  was  cutting  runaway  morning  glories 
on  the  other  side  of  the  high  board  fence,  the  only  fence  in 
the  square.  His  eye  was  drawn  to  the  shears  clipping 
viciously  now  here,  now  there.  He  admired  abstractedly 
the  conviction  with  which  they  dashed  at  the  base  of  the 
tendrils.  A  gloved  hand  guided  them;  reaching  higher 
and  higher,  it  brought  into  view  a  flushed,  determined 
face. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Eobert  Roberts  awkwardly. 

Miss  Sharpe  clipped  a  vine  deliberately;  then  looked 
at  him.  "  Oh,  Robert  Roberts !  "  she  cried  in  delighted 
surprise.  u  Come  over  here  this  minute ;  only,  you  mustn't 
look  at  my  clothes.  Don't  bother  to  go  around.  Climb  the 
fence." 

He  scrambled  through  the  vines  and  jumped  down  be- 
side her.  "  Do  you  remember  the  first  time  you  came 
over  that  way,"  she  asked  as  she  shook  his  hand  eagerly  — 
"  years  ago  ?  " 

"  We  were  playing  '  chase  the  kids,'  "  he  answered 
happily.  "  I  was  pretending  to  be  a  slave  escaping 
through  the  ice  — " 

"  And  you  jumped  into  our  cold  frame !  "  She  laughed 
and  turned  a  dazzling  glance  upon  him.  "  It's  just  good 
to  have  you  back.  I'm  pining  for  somebody  alive  " ;  then 
changed  her  tone,  "  What  charming  fancies  boys  have ! 
I  never  got  beyond  playing  washerwoman.  Aren't  you 
sorry  you've  grown  up  ?  " 

He  blushed  with  pleasure  at  the  tacit  recognition  of  full 
equality  between  them. 

"  But  there  are  disadvantages,  aren't  there  ? "  She 
looked  at  him  so  keenly  that  he  turned  away  his  eyes. 


38  OUR  HOUSE 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  —  now,  Rob  ?  "  His  hesita- 
tion warned  her.  u  Oh,  what  a  question  to  ask  a  man  on 
his  first  day  out  of  college !  Don't  answer  me."  She 
looked  about  quickly.  "  Wait  a  minute."  Skimming 
down  the  garden  path  to  the  side  porch  she  was  back  in  an 
instant  with  an  armful  of  books  and  prints.  "  Sit  down 
on  the  grass,  and  help  me  gloat." 

Robert  Roberts  fingered  timidly  the  leaves  of  a  Chaucer 
printed  in  noble  black  letters.  "  It's  a  Kelmscott,"  she 
said  reverently.  "  William  Morris,  you  know.  My  writ- 
ing brother  sent  it  to  me  for  my  birthday.  See  how  the 
margins  balance  the  page,  and  look  " —  she  strewed  the 
turf  with  Japanese  prints.  "  My  painting  brother  sent 
me  these.  See  how  the  lines  carry  the  color  with  them : — 
but  you  mustn't  look  at  the  faces  as  faces,  you  know. 
They're  just  beautiful  lines  too.  It's  a  new  art,  he  says ; 
that  is,  for  the  West.  Oh,  Rob,"  she  sighed  contentedly, 
"  it's  a  pleasure  to  have  some  one  to  show  these  to,  here  in 
Millingtown." 

Robert  Roberts  hung  over  the  drawings  and  the  books, 
divided  between  the  delightful  sense  of  growing  apprecia- 
tion, and  embarrassment.  "  I  wish  I  knew  more  about 
these  things,"  he  said  thickly.  "  I'm  a  terrible  —  Phi- 
listine " —  he  used  the  term  shyly  — "  compared  with  you." 

u  But  then  I'm  a  little  older,"  she  answered  apolo- 
getically, and  somehow  her  words  made  him  realize  how 
little  older  after  all  she  was  than  he.  "  It  takes  hard 
work  and  a  lifetime  to  make  oneself  really  cultured," — 
her  voice  drifted  into  the  curious  spasmodic  way  of  talking 
that  was  so  characteristic  of  her  when  she  was  in  earnest. 
"  And  one  must  try  for  it,  you  know  —  since  nothing  else 
is  really  worth  while  —  that  is,  without  some  real  culture 
behind  —  you  understand."     She  spoke  with  no  trace  of 


COMPROMISE  39 

irony.  Kobert  Eoberts  was  moved.  He  felt  that  he  was 
looking  into  her  heart. 

"Do  you  read  Pater ?"  she  went  on  softly.  "That's 
what  I  mean  —  to  live  with  a  perfect  appreciation  of 
beauty  and  thought  —  to  burn  with  a  gem-like  flame." 
She  turned  her  eyes  afire  with  intellectual  passion  upon 
him.     "  It's  difficult,"  she  said, — "  here  in  Millingtown." 

He  had  not  read  much  of  Pater.  He  did  not  catch  the 
full  meaning  of  her  thought,  but  her  emotion  transfused 
him,  and  the  old  burning  eagerness  to  know,  to  feel,  to 
see  beauty,  and  thought,  and  life  rushed  back  into  his 
heart  with  painful  force.  But  he  was  conscious  of  a 
new  coldness  somewhere,  a  weight  of  conscience,  the  heavi- 
ness of  doubt.  He  tried  to  find  words  for  his  thought,  but 
they  were  all  too  crude,  or  too  intimate.  His  distress  led 
him  into  what  sounded  like  impertinence.  "  Do  your 
brothers  —  earn  their  living?  "  he  asked.  "  I  mean,"  he 
blushed,  "  by  what  they  do." 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  answering,  "  I  really 
don't  know,"  a  little  coldly.  Suddenly  it  flashed  upon  her 
that  he  was  thinking  of  himself.  "  I  have  a  theory,"  she 
said  finally,  "  that  good  living  always  succeeds  —  I  mean 
practically ;  —  though  of  course  it  may  be  hard  for  a  while ; 
—  but  then  your  family  can  give  you  a  start  —  as  my 
father  did  my  brothers." 

"  But  how  — "  he  began. 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  make  much  difference  what  you  study  — 
it's  the  spirit  that  counts,"  she  interrupted  vaguely. 
Twelve  o'clock  struck  from  the  house.  "  I  must  run  to 
finish  a  letter,  or  I'll  miss  the  English  mail !  "  she  cried, 
then  pausing,  made  him  look  at  her.  "  You're  too  good 
to  spoil,  Robert  Roberts,"  she  said  with  cold  intensity. 
"  You'll  let  me  help  you  —  if  I  can  I  " 


40  OUK  HOUSE 

He  climbed  the  fence  again,  jumped  clear  of  the  grape 
vines,  and  stood  looking  a  little  dazedly  about  him  at  the 
familiar  sights.  Such  strange  ambitions  throbbed  through 
his  breast  on  this  strange  morning;  and  yet  they  seemed 
a  thousand  miles  away  from  the  necessities  and  the  hap- 
piness of  home.  lie  thought  of  his  essay  on  youth  sally- 
ing out  into  the  unknown  to  find  what  life  was  like,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  Miss  Sharpe  would  understand ; 
but  just  the  thought  of  Cousin  Jenny  reading  it  with  a 
sniff  of  her  thin  nostrils  bred  distrust.  Miss  Sharpe's 
brothers  didn't  have  to  earn  their  living.  That  was  the 
weak  point  in  her  argument.  Why  couldn't  you  see  your 
way  clear,  like  any  hero  in  any  novel  or  play?  The  in- 
stant he  felt  like  pitching  in  and  being  a  Roberts,  some- 
thing caved  away  inside  and  left  him  blank;  and  when- 
ever he  tried  to  picture  the  life  he  wanted  to  lead,  he 
'could  hear  nothing  but  Cousin  Jenny's  "  stuff  and  non- 
sense." 

A  thought  shot  into  his  mind.  Couldn't  you  compro- 
mise? Everybody  preached  against  it,  but  didn't  every 
one  do  it  in  life?  He  tried  to  imagine  himself  working 
all  day  in  business  —  whatever  that  might  be  like  —  and 
then  coming  home  to  study,  and  write  perhaps,  and  get 
ready  for  what  might  come  when  his  duty  was  done.  He 
pictured  himself  walking  back  from  the  office  with  father, 
honestly  tired;  then  a  bath,  and  a  change  of  clothes,  and 
supper  at  home  with  all  the  kindliness  and  the  good  things 
to  eat.  Then  upstairs  to  his  room  and  at  his  real  work 
with  a  whirl  of  enthusiasm.  The  picture  began  to  glow 
faintly,  pleasantly.  Cousin  Jenny  was  right.  It  was 
worth  some  sacrifices  to  be  at  home.  But  could  he  stick 
at  it?  Could  he  stay  interested?  Unrest,  ambition,  de- 
sire boiled  up  in  his  heart  again  and  clouded  the  picture. 

The  note  of  a  wood  pewee  sounded  languorously  from  the 


COMPROMISE  41 

trees  that  shaded  the  Taggerts'  back  porch  at  the  far  end 
of  the  gardens.  It  rose,  fell,  and  broke  in  a  novel  quaver. 
His  eyes  changed  suddenly,  his  color  rose,  his  strained 
thoughts  relaxed  into  youth  and  happiness  with  infinite 
relief.  Criticism,  controversy,  and  indecision  blew  from 
his  mind  like  morning  mist.  Leaping  the  privet  hedge 
that  separated  him  from  the  Taggerts'  yard,  he  pushed 
under  the  forsythias,  hurried  to  the  dark  shade  of  the 
maples  below  the  upper  porch,  and  whistled  a  reply. 

"  Pee-wee-ee." 

The  fronds  of  the  trumpet  vine  that  screened  the  porch 
above  shook  a  little  and  back  came  the  answer,  full,  clear, 
true.  The  trumpet  vine  climbed  with,  mighty  coils  up 
the  little  pillar  beside  him.  He  swung  himself  into  its 
lower  arms  and  smiled  audaciously  at  the  veil  of  leaves. 
"  Do  this,"  he  commanded,  and  whistled  "  bob  white." 
The  answer  came  sweetly.  "  And  this,"  he  cadenced  the 
piercing  note  of  the  meadow  lark.  It  floated  back  to  him. 
"  JSTow  this."  He  quavered  the  whisper  song  of  the  veery. 
The  lips  behind  the  vines  tried  and  failed.  He  could  see 
in  imagination  their  sweet  puckerings.  "  I'm  coming  up, 
Katherine  Gray,"  he  cried  triumphantly.  "  You  need 
another  lesson." 

The  leaves  shook  violently,  and  a  hand  and  bare  wrist 
waved  him  back.  "  You  mustn't,"  a  startled  voice  cried. 
"  I'm  drying  my  hair.     It's  all  down.     I'm  a  fright." 

"  You're  prettiest  that  way,"  he  said  calmly  and  climbed 
to  a  higher  coil. 

"  Robert  Roberts,  if  you  just  dare  to  come  a  foot  further 
I'll  call  Cousin  Ann  Taggert.  I'm  in  —  my  dressing 
gown." 

The  youth  faltered.  His  delicacy  was  stronger  than 
his  impudence.  "  Then  show  me  your  face.  I  haven't 
seen  it  for  a  year,  Kath." 


42  OUR  HOUSE 

She  parted  the  vines  and  looked  down  upon  him,  a  deli- 
cate face,  as  finely  cut  as  a  gem,  flashing  like  a  gem  too, 
full  of  fire,  and  high  lights,  and  moods  and  surprises. 
"  Robert  Roberts,  don't  you  dare  look  at  me  that  way. 
You  make  me  blush." 

His  glance  leaped  at  her  piquancy,  the  flash  of  her  eyes, 
the  rose-bud  flush  of  cheeks.  "  Whistle  the  veery  for  me, 
Kath,"  he  said,  a  little  dazed.  "  I  want  to  see  your  lips 
pucker." 

She  reached  one  bare  arm  down  to  smack  his  impudent 
forehead  instead.  He  dodged,  caught  her  hand,  and  kissed 
the  finger-tips.  She  snatched  it  away,  and  boxed  his  ears. 
"  I'll  teach  you  to  bring  such  manners  down  from  the 
Yankees.  Is  that  the  way  you-all  act  up  there  ?  "  Sud- 
denly she  dropped  her  coquetry,  flung  back  her  curls,  and 
settled  down  among  the  vine  leaves  above  him.  "  Robert 
Roberts,  I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you  again.  I  thought  you 
weren't  ever  going  to  court  me  again.  You  didn't 
write  — " 

"  I  was  awfully  busy,"  said  the  boy  guiltily. 

She  flashed  at  him.  "  Courting  me  is  a  business,"  then 
laughed  at  his  humiliation.  "  Joe  Brown  hasn't  been  too 
busy." 

"  Joe  Brown !  "  said  the  boy  angrily.  "  Has  he  been 
rushing  you  ?  Why,  Kath,  that  fellow  — "  his  instinct  for 
what  was  honorable  made  him  pause. 

She  nestled  down  into  the  leaves  and  began  to  talk 
softly,  confidentially.  u  You're  the  only  real  friend  I 
have,  Rob  Roberts.  I'm  just  crazy  to  ask  your  advice. 
Joe  is  in  love  with  me.  He's  told  me  so  again  and  again 
and  he  says  he'll  drink  himself  to  death  if  I  don't  take 
him, —  and  he  will.  I  know  he  will.  He's  not  like  you 
—  prudent  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Why  last  night  he 
came  here  almost  drunk.     If  Cousin  Ann  had  seen  him !  " 


COMPEOMISE  43 

Robert  Roberts'  heart  was  filled  with  sick  disgust.  Joe 
Brown  —  a  man  of  the  world  and  all  that,  but  a  rotten 
sport.  Why  at  college  they  wouldn't  touch  him.  "  He's 
not  your  kind,  Kath,"  he  said  thickly.  "  If  he  were  in 
love  with  you,  he  wouldn't  have  come  round  like  that. 
He's  a  mucker." 

She  flared  indignantly.  "  He's  not  He's  the  most 
pathetic  fellow,  with  such  sad  experiences.  He's  awfully 
old,  you  know.  Thirty,  at  least.  And  he  speaks  of  you 
in  the  nicest  way.  He  says  he'll  put  you  up  for  the  club 
as  soon  as  you're  old  enough ;  and  he's  so  interested  in  the 
things  you  write.     He  says  they  are  sweet." 

Robert  Roberts  clenched  his  fists  on  the  vine  trunk  and 
swore  to  himself.  Just  wait  till  he  had  seen  a  little  more 
of  the  world  outside  of  college  and  then  bring  on  Joe 
Brown.  His  youth,  his  confounded  youth  was  his  handi- 
cap. "  I  don't  like  Joe  Brown  and  I  don't  want  you  to 
like  him,"  he  said  doggedly. 

She  bent  her  face  down  toward  his.  "  Why  not  ?  "  she 
asked  teasingly. 

He  flushed  purple.  Why  not  ?  She  knew  well  enough. 
She  knew  too  why  he  wouldn't  say  it  was  because  he  cared 
for  her, —  when  he  hadn't  made  good  yet,  when  he  knew 
he  was  still  not  much  more  than  a  boy.  It  wasn't  honor- 
able. "  Because,"  he  said  slowly,  "  he's  just  trifling  with 
you.  It  isn't  love  with  him.  It's  appetite  — "  he  blushed 
at  his  frankness  and  wondered  whether  she  would  under- 
stand. "  You  are  worth  a  better  man  than  he  is,  Kath 
Gray." 

She  looked  past  him  dreamily ;  then  caught  his  earnest 
eye,  and  rippled  into  pealing  laughter.  He  seized  her 
hands,  but  could  not  stop  her.  "  A  better  man,"  she 
teased,  making  faces  at  his  furious  embarrassment.  The 
tendrils  of  her  hair  floated  round  them  both.     "  Let  go  my 


44  OUK  HOUSE 

hands,  you  conceited  boy/'  she  cried,  jerked  them  away, 
and  hid  herself  behind  the  leaves.  "  A  better  man,"  she 
mocked  at  him. 

The  lunch  gong  sounded  below.  "  Kath,  I'm  coming 
over  to-night,"  he  called  hotly  through  the  vines. 

"  So  is  Joe  Brown,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  I'm  coming  this  afternoon." 

«  We're  going  driving."     She  spoke  through  hair  pins. 

His  heart  burned  furiously.  "  I  want  you  on  your  first 
free  day, —  for  a  canoe  trip  down  the  Brandywine." 

Her  coiffed  head  reappeared.  "  I'm  going  to  be  here 
all  summer.  You'll  have  plenty  of  chances,"  she  said 
demurely,  "  unless  you're  going  back  to  your  Yankees." 

"  I'll  be  here  all  summer  too,"  he  answered  firmly. 
"  Now  do  the  veery."  She  did  it  charmingly,  until  her 
graceful  lips  lifted  at  the  corners  and  spoiled  the  note. 
"  Good-by,"  she  said  with  real  tenderness.  "  You're  my 
best  friend,  Robert  Roberts.  I  trust  you  more  than  any 
one."  She  put  a  trumpet  flower  in  his  buttonhole.  "  I'll 
go  —  to-morrow." 

The  warm  glow  of  it  carried  him  unseeing  across  the 
bright-lit  spaces  of  the  gardens.  He  touched  the  flower 
with  reverence.  She  better  resembled  a  daffodil,  slender 
and  graceful  and  intense ;  except  for  her  coloring  that  was 
like  an  apple  blossom,  and  her  eyes  like  gentians.  No, 
she  was  too  rare  and  wild  for  a  daffodil ;  she  was  like  the 
strange  flower  he  had  found  once,  drooping  white  sprays 
of  odorous,  delicate  flowers  upon  the  banks  of  the  Brandy- 
wine,  simple  and  mysterious  like  that,  bold  and  yet  so  — 
elusive.  His  vocabulary  failed  him,  but  his  heart  kept 
warm. 

"  Father's  home.  He  wants  to  talk  to  thee  before 
lunch,"  his  mother  called  across  the  vivid  spaces  in  which 
his  imagination  wandered. 


COMPKOMISE  45 

"  Coming,"  he  answered  calmly.  With  surprise  and 
somewhat  sheepish  relief,  he  perceived  that  his  resolution 
was  already  taken.  "  I  suppose  I  might  as  well  try  it  out 
at  home,"  he  said  to  himself  carelessly  as  he  washed  his 
face  and  hands.  But  as  he  walked  down  the  long  hall  to 
his  father's  study,  it  was  the  thought  that  she  would  be 
here  all  summer  that  still  possessed  him. 


CHAPTER  V 


WORK 


AFTER  some  consideration,  Robert  Roberts  decided 
that  it  would  be  better  not  to  wear  a  scarf  pin  on  the 
day  when  he  first  went  to  work.  He  turned  down  his 
trousers  also,  and  changed  his  brilliant  hat-band  for  one 
of  sober  black.  Instinctively  he  felt  that  the  less  he  looked 
like  a  college  boy,  the  better.  To  be  courteous,  to  be 
humble  in  spirit,  to  be  willing  to  learn,  that  was  the  pro- 
gram. Stepping  into  the  garden  to  taste  the  fresh  air 
of  morning,  he  let  his  thoughts  run  ahead  through  the  day. 
"  There  must  be  some  principle  in  this  real  estate  busi- 
ness," he  said  to  himself,  puckering  his  forehead.  "  Per- 
haps it's  finding  what  people  really  want,  not  what  they 
think  they  want.  If  I  can  only  get  hold  of  something  to 
study  out  — "  The  clock  struck  half-past  seven ;  he  hur- 
ried in,  and  found  his  father  reading  the  paper  with  be- 
fore-breakfast  glumness.  "  Did  we  get  the  last  game  from 
Harvard  ?  "  he  called  from  the  door. 

His  father  turned  to  the  sporting-page  reluctantly, 
keeping  one  finger  on  the  stock  exchange  column. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Robert  heroically.  He  felt 
the  time  had  come  to  put  by  childish  things. 

The  dingy  office  in  the  old  Cutler  building  had  long 
been  familiar  to  Robert  Roberts.  His  memory  of  it  went 
back  to  the  time  when  it  was  a  mysterious  place  where  — 
so  mother  said  —  their  daily  bread  was  made,  a  place  with 
punchers  that  stamped  holes  in  paper,  and  plenty  of  rub- 
ber bands.     In  more  enlightened  times  it  had  lost  its 

46 


WORK  47 

glamour.  He  ran  in  there,  whenever  he  was  home,  to 
shake  hands  with  the  office  force,  feeling  a  little  like  a 
butterfly  in  a  cellar;  and  hurried  out  into  the  sunlight 
again  as  quickly  as  possible.  There  was  something  anti- 
pathetic in  the  piles  of  meaningless  papers,  the  forbidding 
ledgers,  in  the  forced  geniality  of  Mr.  Trimbill,  his  father's 
right-hand  man,  whose  jokes  seemed  part  of  the  day's 
work. 

In  the  office  George  Barnwell  was  working  sullenly  over 
a  filing-case,  while  Mr.  Trimbill  sat  as  usual  at  his  roll-top 
desk  drooping  a  cigar  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth  while 
he  scribbled  on  yellow  paper.  He  was  a  long,  spare  man 
of  thirty,  with  badly  fitting  joints  and  a  sallow  com- 
plexion, but  eyes  that  glinted  and  a  slack  mouth  that  kept 
stretching  and  puckering  into  figures  of  intensest  energy 
as  he  worked.  "  Well,  here's  the  new  man,"  his  father 
said  jocularly,  and  Robert  shook  hands  all  around. 
George's  "  Hello,  Rob,"  was  a  little  sulky.  They  had  been 
at  school  together  before  Robert  had  gone  to  college,  and 
it  was  clear  that  George  didn't  intend  to  stand  for  any 
college  "  side."  But  Mr.  Trimbill  was  effusive.  "  New 
blood's  just  what  we've  been  wanting,"  and  he  shook 
Robert's  hand  again  and  again.  "  Have  a  cigar  ?  I  hear 
you  won  the  game  yesterday.  Say,  that's  some  pitcher 
you've  got." 

Robert  Roberts  would  have  liked  to  ask  about  the  game; 
but  he  remembered  his  resolve  to  drop  the  college-boy  part. 
"  Sure  thing,"  he  replied,  and  as  soon  as  he  could  get  away, 
followed  his  father  to  the  inner  office.  John  Roberts  was 
bending  his  long  thin  figure  over  a  pile  of  unopened  mail, 
thinking.  As  Robert  entered  he  began  to  open  the  letters 
hastily,  talking  as  he  did  so.  "  Big  mail  to-day.  There's 
that  Donergan  firm  writing  again.  I  must  get  Trimbill 
after  them.     '  Dear  Sir :     In  reference  to  yours  of  the 


48  OUR  HOUSE 

seventeenth  —  um  —  um  ' — "  He  swung  his  chair  on  the 
pivot  and  looked  at  Robert  with  an  embarrassed  smile. 
"  Got  my  hands  full,  Robert.     Glad  thee's  going  to  help." 

The  boy  stood  silent,  a  little  flushed  and  bright-eyed, 
but  happy  and  confident.  He  had  forgotten  indecision. 
"  Where  does  thee  want  me  to  start,  father,"  he  asked, 
with  a  tremble  of  excitement  in  his  voice. 

John  Roberts  chewed  the  end  of  his  cigar.  "  You 
might  — "  he  glanced  at  Robert,  then  glanced  away  again. 
The  truth  was  that  he  had  not  made  up  his  mind  what  to 
do  with  this  curious,  uncomfortable  boy  of  his.  If  it  had 
been  himself  he  could  have  set  him  at  opening  mail  and 
emptying  the  scrap-baskets.     But  this  youth  was  educated. 

Robert  Roberts  felt  his  father's  embarrassment,  shared, 
and  misunderstood  it.  "  I  can't  do  much,  father,  but  I'm 
ready  to  learn.  I  can  typewrite."  He  smiled  whim- 
sically.    "  And  I  can  ask  questions." 

"  Typewrite  ?  " —  his  father  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 
"  Did  they  teach  you  that !  " 

"  No,"  said  the  boy  modestly.  "  I  learned  myself  this 
Spring.  I  thought  it  might  help  me  —  in  some  writing  I 
was  doing." 

John  Roberts  grunted,  but  nevertheless  was  relieved. 
"  There's  a  list  of  lots  to  be  sold  at  auction  that  has  to  be 
drawn  up  this  morning.  You  can  do  it,  and  let  George 
finish  the  files.     He'll  tell  you  what  to  do." 

Puffing  out  a  cloud  of  smoke,  he  swung  back  to  his  mail. 
"  i  We  beg  t' inform  you  that  —  um,  um  — '  " 

Robert  understood  that  he  was  dismissed.  He  wanted 
to  speak  of  the  cinnamon  bun  his  mother  had  told  him  to 
have  ordered  for  supper,  but  felt  the  moment  unpropi- 
tious.  The  sight  of  his  father's  weary  back  bent  over  the 
pile  of  letters  impressed  him.  Had  he  been  as  tired  as 
that  through  all  these  recent  years !     With  repentant  alac- 


WOEK  49 

rity  the  boy  asked  for  and  received  a  pile  of  dirty  cards 
from  George,  opened  the  machine  and  went  to  work. 

"  The  following  properties  will  be  offered  at  public  sale 
on  July  1 :  Lot  I,  corner  Buttonwood  and  Church  St., 
45  ft.  on  Buttonwood,  80  on  Church.  Unimproved.  Lot 
II.  Frame  house  with  basement  store  — "  Curious  the 
satisfaction  in  throwing  these  dull  details  into  place  with 
nervous  clicks  of  the  machine!  It  was  nothing  but 
routine ;  but  it  was  work.  Some  one  was  going  to  use  it. 
Between  paragraphs  he  glanced  about  him,  at  the  paper- 
strewn  office,  at  Mr.  Trimbill  endlessly  figuring,  at  George 
murmuring  audibly  as  he  sorted  cards  for  the  file.  He 
felt  himself  part  at  last  of  the  world  machine,  and  thrilled 
at  the  thought.  His  surroundings  were  not  those  he  had 
imagined  for  life  work,  his  labor  was  monotonous  and 
trivial,  but  the  thrill  was  transcendent.  A  young  hero  on 
his  first  battlefield  could  feel  no  more,  for  the  rhythm 
sprang  not  from  circumstance  but  youth. 

u  Lot  VII.  Brick  house  with  orchard,  and  grape  arbor. 
Must  be  sold."  The  "  must "  was  poignant.  As  his  fin- 
gers rattled  on,  he  shaped  a  story  of  that  orchard-arbor, 
and  how  he  might  sell  it  for  twice  what  the  owner  ex- 
pected. "  Cut  out  the  romancing,  Bobert,"  he  warned 
himself.  But  the  dull  words  he  was  typing  would  flush 
and  illumine  with  the  life  behind  them.  He  tried  to 
imagine  the  dwellers  who  offered  their  homes  so  earnestly, 
sometimes  so  pleadingly.  He  tried  to  imagine  the  buyer 
who  might  be  caught  and  led  to  each.  There  must  be  some 
principle  —  "  Lot  X.  100  ft.  between  Danvers  St.  and 
Latimer  Ave.," —  why  that  was  their  lot !  The  lot  father 
always  joked  about  building  on,  when  the  right  girl  came 
along!  He  stopped  an  instant  to  speculate,  and  a  little 
chill  of  premonition  ran  down  his  spine.  But  he  settled 
back  to  his  task  again  with  the  comforting  if  humiliating 


50  CUE  HOUSE 

conviction  that  after  all  he  knew  very  little  of  his  father's 
affairs.  The  cloud  passed.  The  very  ink  on  his  lingers 
was  symbolic  of  work.  When  he  finished  he  gathered  up 
sheets  with  conscious  satisfaction.  "  Job  1,"  he  thought. 
"  Next." 

Twelve  struck.  George  without  a  word  grabbed  his 
hat  and  hurried  out.  Mr.  Trimbill  swung  away  from  his 
figuring  and  began  to  puff  smoke  curls  at  the  dingy  ceiling. 
His  father  stepped  out  from  the  inner  office.  "  Back  at 
one,  Trimbill.  I'm  going  to  the  bank.  Rob  — "  he  looked 
at  Robert  dubiously.  "  You  can  take  your  hour  for  lunch 
now.     Got  through  ?     Good !  " 

Robert  Roberts  wondered  why  he  wasn't  invited  to  lunch 
with  his  father,  but  decided  that  it  was  discipline.  The 
door  closed,  and  left  him  alone  with  Trimbill.  That  gen- 
tleman brought  his  narrow  eyes  from  the  ceiling,  swung 
his  lank  figure  into  a  more  comfortable  position,  and  looked 
at  Robert  slyly.  "  Bank ! "  he  murmured  derisively. 
it  y>r  father  always  says  l  banker '  when  he  means  '  broker.' 
Hates  to  have  any  one  know  he's  followin'  the  market. 
Hear  he  made  a  killin'  in  U.  G.  I.  last  week." 

"  I  don't  know."  Robert  answered  in  a  tone  that  en- 
deavored to  say,  "  I  do  know,  but  won't  tell." 

"  Oh,  well,"  Mr.  Trimbill  waived  the  point.  "  I  wish 
he'd  put  money  in  here" 

"  You  mean  we,  that  is,  you  need  more  capital  ? " 
Robert  spoke  tentatively.  He  feared  to  reveal  an  abysmal 
ignorance  of  his  father's  affairs;  but  he  was  tortured  by 
curiosity. 

"  Capital !  "  Mr.  Trimbill  moved  a  thin  hand  signifi- 
cantly. "  Of  course  we  do !  And  hustle;  that's  what  we 
need.  Your  father's  just  scratched  the  possibilities  of  this 
business.  Why,  look  here,  I've  been  calculatin'  this 
mornin'  that  if  we'd  only  add  a  gold-bond  mortgage  de- 


WOKK  51 

partment,  usin'  our  name  without  putting  in  a  cent,  we 
could  —  why  just  look  at  the  way  it  figures  out."  He 
plunged  into  a  mass  of  yellow  paper. 

Robert  determined  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  if  neces- 
sary.    "  What  is  a  gold-bond  mortgage  ?  " 

Trimbill  looked  at  him  in  shocked  surprise.  "  I  sup- 
pose," he  said  elaborately,  "  that  you  fellows  have  to  learn 
so  much  Latin  and  Greek  that  you  ain't  had  time  to  get 
hold  of  these  practical  points.  Why  a  gold-bond  mortgage 
is  got  up  to  look  just  like  a  bond,  with  coupons  on  it  that 
people  can  clip." 

"  What's  the  point  of  the  coupons  ? "  Robert  asked 
boldly. 

"  You've  got  it.  You've  got  it,"  said  Mr.  Trimbill  ex- 
citedly. "  People'll  buy  somethin'  like  a  bond  that  says 
it's  worth  money  on  its  face,  when  they  wouldn't  touch 
real  estate.  They  see  $25  or  $50  printed  on  one  of  them 
coupons,  and  come  in  like  cod  on  a  line.  I'll  bet  you  we 
could  sell  a  hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth  in  this  town 
—  easy."  (Mr.  Trimbill  always  rolled  the  diphthong  unc- 
tuously in  "  thousand."  You  could  see  the  word  expand 
in  his  imagination.)  His  eyes  lit  from  the  restless  fires 
within  him.  "  I'm  a  '  big  business  '  man,  Robert.  When 
I  hit,  I  want  to  hit  big.  There's  nothin'  in  this  ten-dollar 
commission,  tend-to-your-roof-and-yard  business.  Get 
after  the  money,  is  what  I  say."  He  looked  shrewdly  at 
Robert  Roberts.  "  You  talk  to  your  father.  He  may 
listen  to  you.  We  get  along  well  enough.  But  he's  afraid 
of  my  ideas.     I'm  too  modern  for  him." 

Robert  Roberts  was  a  little  dazzled.  "  Big  business  " 
had  a  poetic  value  for  him.  The  papers  were  full  of  it; 
his  lecturer  in  economics  had  used  the  term  again  and 
again.  It  meant  the  striding  forward  of  a  vigorous  young 
country.     It  meant  work  full  of  imagination,  where  brains 


52  OUR  HOUSE 

and  inventiveness  had  a  chance.  Even  Johnny  Bolt  used 
to  warm  when  they  talked  of  "  big  business  "  and  the  tri- 
umphs of  America.  But  they  were  thinking  of  steel  and 
railroads  and  ship  building,  not  little  things,  like  real 
estate ! 

"  It  sounds  pretty  good,"  he  said  with  as  much  judi- 
ciousness as  he  could  command.  "  I'd  like  to  talk  it  over 
with  father  —  though  of  course  I'm  a  greenhorn.  My 
opinion  isn't  any  good." 

Trimbill  did  not  seem  to  consider  a  denial  necessary. 
"  I  tell  you  in  confidence,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice, 
u  that  I  think  vury,  vury  highly  of  your  father.  He's  a 
gentleman  he  is,  and  stands  vury,  vury  well  in  this  town. 
But  you  and  I  can  see  that  he's  behind  the  times.  His 
ideas  ain't  big  enough.  If  it  weren't  for  my  personal  ad- 
miration I  wouldn't  stay  in  this  job  a  week.  No,  sir! 
It's  too  narrow  for  me.  They've  been  tryin'  for  a  year  to 
get  me  out  in  Chicago.  Some  day  I'll  get  impatient  and 
go.     That's  what  I'm  afraid  of." 

Bobert  smiled  inwardly.  There  was  something  —  he 
felt  for  the  word  —  specious  about  Mr.  Trimbill.  But 
his  imagination  was  stirred  nevertheless.  To  strike  for 
big  things,  to  broaden  out  the  business,  to  swing  it  in  line 
with  the  big  movements  that  were  going  to  start  as  soon  as 
the  war  was  over, —  his  thoughts  struck  fire  from  the 
project.  Nevertheless,  an  instinctive  loyalty  to  his  father 
kept  him  silent.  "  I  think  I'll  get  some  lunch,  unless 
you  need  me,"  he  said  politely.  But  as  he  passed  into  the 
hallway  Mr.  Trimbill  called  him  back.  "  See  that  " —  he 
held  out  a  letter-head  of  a  Chicago  corporation  whose  name 
even  Robert  knew.  "  I  made  those  people,  yes,  sir.  They 
dropped  me  when  they'd  stolen  my  ideas.  But  I've  had 
intimations  —  Well,  you  talk  to  your  father.  Jest  say 
I'm  gettin'  restless." 


WOBK  53 

Kobert  passed  through  the  throng  of  clerks  that  idled 
on  Market  Street  at  the  noon  hour,  shaking  hands  with 
old  acquaintances  and  submitting  to  pattings-ou-the-back 
by  cousins  and  friends  of  the  family.  The  street  that  had 
seemed  so  bourgeois  was  full  of  interest  now.  He  could 
see  in  the  eyes  of  all  these  young  fellows  the  vision  of  an 
office  desk  that  lay  before  his  own;  their  hands  too  had 
just  left  the  typewriter  or  the  pen.  He  saw  them  move 
aside  deferentially  when  some  one  who  had  been  just 
"  Cousin  Tom,"  or  "  George  Brayton's  father  "  to  him, 
stepped  importantly  from  his  office.  How  many  of  them 
all,  he  wondered,  understood  "  big  business." 

In  the  lunch  room  he  found  George,  who  nodded  sulkily. 
"  The  girls  are  fierce  here,"  he  grumbled.  "  I  ain't  got 
but  five  minutes  to  eat  an'  git  to  a  'portant  engagement. 
Hey,  gimme  some  mince  pie  an'  milk." 

"  Better  have  a  chop  and  potatoes  with  me,"  said  Bobert 
amiably.     u  We've  got  an  afternoon's  plugging  ahead." 

George  declined  loftily.  "  I've  done  all  the  hard  work 
I'm  goin'  to  do  to-day,"  he  said  pompously.  "  If  Trim 
wants  another  file  sorted,  he  can  do  it  himself.  That's  his 
job  anyhow.  I'm  supposed  to  be  on  outside  work.  Only 
he  ain't  competent.  I'll  bet  I  did  more  this  mornin'  than 
he  can  do  in  a  day." 

"  What's  outside  work  ?  "  asked  Bobert  Boberts. 

u  Keepin'  track  of  our  properties  and  talkin'  round 
customers.  Trim  ain't  no  good  at  that  either ;  all  he  does 
is  to  figure  and  hot  air.  I  guess  your  father's  on  to  him 
all  right  ? "  He  glanced  shrewdly  at  Bobert  Boberts. 
"  He  don't  git  any  business  for  the  firm.  All  he  does  is  to 
pile  the  dirty  work  on  me.  I'm  about  ready  to  quit. 
Your  father  don't  know  it  but  they're  likely  to  offer  me 
five  dollars  a  week  more  up  the  street  any  day." 

Bobert  Boberts  frowned.     Was  everybody  self-seeking 


54  OUR  HOUSE 

and  discontented !  He  changed  the  subject.  "  What  do 
you  think  of  his  gold-bond  mortgage  idea  —  Mr.  Trim- 
bill's  I  mean  ?  " 

Barnwell  looked  at  him  vaguely.  "  Gold-bond  —  Oh, 
them  certificates  with  coupons  on  'em.  No.  I  don't  like 
'em.  You  have  to  cash  the  coupons  and  then  collect  the 
money  afterward.  I  don't  want  any  more  work.  Got 
more'n  I  can  handle  now." 

Robert  smiled,  "  Well,  I'm  coming  in  to  help.  Of 
course,  I  don't  know  anything  yet,  but  I'm  willing !  " 

Barnwell  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  "  Are  you  goin' 
to  have  my  job  ?  "  he  asked  hoarsely. 

Robert  flushed.  "  I  guess  there's  more  than  enough 
work  for  us  both,  from  what  you  say,  George,"  he  an- 
swered a  little  ironically.  "  But  I'm  not  trying  to  squeeze 
you  out.  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  going  to  be  able  to 
stick,  myself.  I  wish  you'd  give  me  some  pointers.  I'm 
green  as  grass." 

"  Sure  —  I'll  show  you,"  said  Barnwell  loftily.  It  was 
clear  to  Robert  that  he  must  seek  his  own  information. 

As  he  walked  home  in  the  late  afternoon,  tramping  the 
long  street  in  company  with  dozens  of  other  homegoers, 
he  felt  the  relaxation  that  comes  after  monotonous  toil 
and  rejoiced  in  its  satisfying  reality.  Like  a  thousand 
generations  of  men  before  him,  he  was  coming  home  from 
work.  But  as  he  crossed  the  bridge,  a  stir  of  free  air 
moist  from  the  waterfalls  below,  or  was  it  the  song  of  a 
thrush  in  the  thickets  by  the  stream  bank,  put  restlessness 
into  his  mood.  "  I  wonder  if  I  can  broaden  the  business," 
he  thought,  "  or  whether  I'll  get  to  be  boastful  and  com- 
plaining and  discontented  like  George  and  Mr.  Trimbill. 
Father  must  find  them  difficult !  "  A  pang  of  remorse 
swept  through  him.  Was  it  right  to  have  reached  twenty- 
one  and  yet  be  so  far  apart  from  his  father's  world  that 


WOKK  55 

even  now  he  was  questioning  every  one  else  first  ?  After 
dinner  he  would  try  to  talk  to  him.  The  resolution  was 
embarrassing.  It  was  hard  to  talk  to  father !  But  now 
they  had  a  common  ground.  "  I  won't  use  '  pull,'  "  he 
thought,  "  but  what's  the  use  of  a  father  if  you  can't  learn 
from  his  experience?  I'll  ask  him  about  the  gold-bond 
mortgages." 

After  dinner  his  father  sank  into  his  paper,  but  his 
mother,  fluttering  about  Robert  like  a  robin  over  her 
fledged  young  one,  began  to  question  him  about  the  day, 
and  blushed  with  pleasure  at  his  enthusiasm.  u  Don't 
read,  John,"  she  said  almost  sharply.  "  This  is  Robert's 
first  day  with  thee.  I  want  you  to  talk  business  —  to- 
gether." 

Robert  laughed,  caught  her  at  the  door,  and  kissed  her. 
"  I  don't  know  enough  to  talk  business  yet.  But,  father  — 
what  is  a  gold-bond  mortgage  ?  " 

John  Roberts  put  down  his  book  and  began  to  explain 
laboriously  and  minutely,  as  was  his  custom.  Robert 
found  it  difficult  to  follow  him,  the  next  question  so  burned 
upon  his  lips.  "  Could  we  adopt  it,"  he  faltered,  "  in  the 
office?  I'm  just  asking  for  information.  Mr.  Trimbill 
says  we  ought  to  broaden  —  perhaps  he  means  to  make 
room  for  me.  Couldn't  I  study  up  that  end  —  or  some 
specialty  like  it  ?  I  don't  mean  that  I  want  to  get  out  of 
the  routine.  I'll  take  all  you  give  me.  But  I'd  like  to 
get  something  extra, —  to  use  my  head  on,  in  the  evenings 
perhaps, —  something  to  get  ready  for  later."  He  forgot 
that  he  had  already  consecrated  his  evenings  to  the  other 
side  of  his  life,  for  as  he  spoke  the  thought  that  had  been 
struggling  into  expression  all  day,  crystallized  itself. 
Either  he  must  get  at  the  idea  in  this  business,  or  disap- 
point them  all. 

John   Roberts   bit  his   cigar   nervously.     "  Trimbill's 


56  OUB  HOUSE 

been  talking  to  you,  has  he, — '  big  business/  eh  ?  Better 
'tend  to  his  own  business."     He  returned  to  his  paper. 

"  But,  father  — "  cried  Bobert  pleadingly.  His  pride 
hushed  the  entreaty.  "  Don't  you  believe  in  broadening 
the  business  1  "  he  asked,  then  realized  how  foolish  the 
remark  sounded  from  the  lips  of  a  greenhorn. 

John  Roberts  threw  down  his  paper  with  a  bang.  "  If 
you'll  put  ten  thousand  dollars  into  the  business,  Bob, 
we'll  broaden  in  a  hurry,"  he  cried  peevishly.     "  I  can't." 

"  But  Mr.  Trimbill  says  he  could  try  this  gold-bond 
scheme  without  putting  in  a  cent." 

"  Try  it  on  what  %  "  said  his  father  angrily.  "  On  my 
credit.     That's  Trimbill's  idea  of  '  big  business.'  " 

The  boy  saw  his  mistake  and  took  his  humiliation 
bravely.  "  He  means  to  issue  guarantees  with  nothing  be- 
hind them  —  to  bluff,"  he  said  slowly.  His  fine  lips 
curled  with  scorn.  "  Why  don't  you  let  him  go  to  Chi- 
cago —  where  they  want  him  so  much,  father  ?  That's 
not  honest." 

John  Roberts  was  curiously  troubled.  "  ISTo,  no,  Trim- 
bill's  honest  enough,"  he  said  hurriedly,  and  the  pink  spots 
in  his  cheeks  deepened.  "  He  has  good  ideas  too,  only 
he's  a  little  visionary.  We'll  broaden  slowly.  If  he  talks 
to  you  again,  tell  him  I'm  thinking  of  putting  some  more 
money  in  the  business  —  perhaps  in  the  Fall.  Say  that 
Sussex  County  land  is  looking  up,  and  may  be  sold  any 
time.  Thee  sees,  Bob — "  he  spoke  with  the  embarrass- 
ment which  with  him  always  accompanied  bad  news  — 
"  I'm  very  busy  with  outside  affairs  now.  I've  got  to  have 
a  reliable  man  in  the  office  until  I  get  straightened  out." 

Bobert  Boberts  was  most  uncomfortable.  He  wanted 
to  learn,  and  yet  wherever  he  placed  a  foot  there  was  the 
shifting  sand  of  some  situation  he  could  not  comprehend. 
"  I  hope  I'll  be  able  to  be  of  some  use  soon,"  he  said ;  and 


WOKK  57 

in  spite  of  himself  a  little  hurt  pride  crept  into  his  tone. 

"  Yes,  yes/'  said  his  father,  eager  to  end  the  conversa- 
tion. "  Of  course  you  will."  He  turned  with  relief  to 
his  paper. 

Eobert  picked  up  a  book  or  two  for  his  evening  reading 
and  started  upstairs.  "  Nobody  seems  to  care  anything 
about  my  learning  the  business  as  a  business,"  he  thought 
bitterly.  "  It's  all  —  tactics.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  plod 
away  by  myself  till  I  get  the  hang  of  things.  I  wonder  if 
I'll  ever  get  beyond  typewriting  lists !  "  Half  way  up 
he  remembered  some  prints  Miss  Sharpe  had  sent  over  and 
retraced  his  steps  to  get  them.  But  he  stopped,  frozen, 
on  the  lowest  stair.  Through  the  open  door  of  the  library 
he  caught  a  sudden,  paralyzing  glimpse  of  his  father,  the 
paper  on  his  knees  and  unregarded,  feverishly  figuring  on 
a  slip  of  paper,  his  face  tense  and  his  hands  aquiver. 

"  Something's  hideously  wrong,"  thought  Robert 
Roberts,  and  all  the  premonitions,  the  hints,  the  warnings 
of  the  last  few  days  rushed  clamoring  into  his  mind.  For 
an  instant  he  contemplated  a  return  to  the  library,  a  ques- 
tion that  might  at  least  relieve  suspense.  But  old  habits 
of  deference  were  too  strong.  There  was  something  ir- 
reverent, almost  indecent,  in  discovering  his  father's  emo- 
tion thus.  He  noticed  with  a  fresh  pang  that  his  face  was 
worn  and  sallow,  that  his  hands  trembled.  Then  he  tip- 
toed upstairs  into  the  solitude  of  his  own  room.  "  I'm 
too  much  of  a  baby  to  be  any  use,"  he  whispered,  clench- 
ing his  fists.  "  I've  got  to  get  the  hang  of  business  first, 
then  I  can  help."  The  dull  gloom  that  had  been  settling 
upon  his  spirits  began  to  evaporate.  His  heart  beat  higher. 
Here  was  purpose ;  here  was  reality  at  least. 


CHAPTER  VI 

INTERMEZZO 

JULY  settled  down  upon  the  little  city  with  a  sodden 
heat  that  wilted  without  vanquishing  the  obstinate 
American,  who  refused  to  admit  that  he  was  living  in  the 
tropics  even  when  the  sun  turned  him  giddy  at  the  noon- 
ing he  should  have  spent  at  siesta  in  the  shade,  or  the 
humid  heat  melted  his  ridiculous  stiff  collar  and  soaked 
his  body  beneath  its  inappropriate  clothing.  Eobert 
Roberts  took  off  his  coat  and  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  such 
things  being  permitted  at  college.  George  followed  his 
example,  forgetting  to  remove  his  suspenders.  But  Trim- 
bill  sat  figuring  through  the  hottest  days  without  so  much 
as  changing  his  waiscoat.  In  '98  no  concessions  were 
made  to  the  weather,  in  the  best  offices. 

Business  dropped  as  the  heat  increased.  The  war  re- 
sounded in  clamorous  headlines  with  continual  victories, 
but  dragged  slowly  and  more  slowly  nevertheless.  War 
taxes  were  beginning  to  make  themselves  felt.  The  price 
of  mere  living  was  high.  No  one  who  could  help  it  bought 
real  estate.  It  was  difficult  to  collect  rents.  The  stock 
market  was  torpid,  and  his  father  now  spent  whole  morn- 
ings in  the  inner  office,  like  Trimbill  endlessly  figuring. 
Nothing  happened.  Katherine  Gray,  after  a  week  when 
life  was  more  vivid  for  her  presence,  had  been  called  home 
unexpectedly.  If  there  was  tragedy  somewhere,  as  Robert 
felt,  it  hung  remote  and  motionless,  like  the  summer  clouds. 

At  first  he  awoke  each  morning  with  an  acute  sense  of 
something   preparing,    something   unknown,    spectacular, 

58 


INTERMEZZO  59 

devastating,  about  to  burst  upon  the  quiet  house.  He 
worked  feverishly.  But  the  edge  of  speculation  dulled 
itself  in  labor.  Each  week  they  tried  him  on  something 
new.  He  had  been  stenographer.  He  had  collected  rents, 
and  done  it  rather  badly,  being  too  fascinated  by  the 
picturesque  stories  of  delinquents  to  remember  the  prime 
importance  of  cash.  He  had  acted  as  buffer  between  quer- 
ulous tenants  and  tight-fisted  owners,  this  time  more  suc- 
cessfully, for  his  courtesy,  and  his  ready  suggestions  of 
possible  compromise  soothed  when  they  did  not  end  the 
dispute.  He  had  learned  how  to  persuade  a  plumber  to  do 
six  hours'  work  a  day ;  how  to  eject  an  undesirable  tenant 
without  hurting  his  feelings ;  how  to  write  advertisements 
that  made  every  section  of  the  city  seem  in  turn  the  best. 
But  the  principle  of  the  business  baffled  him.  It  was 
smothered  in  endless  detail.  He  could  not  make  real  es- 
tate seem  "  big  business,"  unless,  in  moments  of  distrac- 
tion, his  imagination  rollicked  off  into  impossible  narra- 
tives of  sudden  ideas  crystallizing  into  new  modes  of  life 
that  set  all  the  town  amoving.  At  the  Public  Library  he 
had  found  a  book  upon  the  new  garden  suburbs  they  were 
planning  in  English  cities,  and  this  was  the  basis  of  his 
dreams.  But  the  common  sense  which  was  inherent  in 
the  Roberts'  germ  plasm  warned  him  that  one  must  learn 
to  sell  ugly  houses  and  weedy  lots  before  aspiring  to  edu- 
cate the  desires  of  Millingtown.  And  ever  in  the  subsoil 
of  his  mind  were  the  springs  of  self-distrust,  ready  to  rise 
and  chill  his  hopes  with  premonitions  of  evil  days  to  come, 
and  fears  that  family  disaster  would  find  him  untested, 
unprepared. 

At  the  end  of  July,  Trimbill  went  off  on  his  vacation. 
He  stopped  at  the  office  one  Monday  morning  on  the  way 
to  the  train,  his  pockets  stuffed  with  newspapers  and  cheap 
magazines,  an  unusually  high,  unusually  shiny  collar  grip- 


60  OUR  HOUSE 

ping  his  perspiring  neck,  an  expression  of  mysterious  im- 
portance on  his  lean  face. 

"  Going  to  the  Shore  ?  "  Robert  asked. 

Mr.  Trimbill  looked  at  him  vaguely.  "  Shore  ?  Well, 
I  may  get  there,  if  I'm  not  called  out  to  Chicago."  He 
took  an  enormous  roll  of  yellow  paper  from  his  desk  and 
thrust  it  into  his  suit  case.  "  Good-by."  His  clammy 
hand-press  seemed  to  say,  "  And  if  forever  — ."  Robert 
smiled  after  him;  and  yet  he  felt  uncomfortably  that  this 
loose-minded,  haphazard  individual,  who  indefatigably 
schemed,  schemed,  schemed  for  "  big  business,"  without 
ever  seeming  to  think  out  his  plan,  might  make  his  million 
in  this  curious  world  of  business,  where  luck  and  a  good 
idea  counted  for  so  much,  while  he  was  still  searching  for 
a  principle  in  the  midst  of  advertisements,  auction  sales, 
and  tenants  exasperated  by  barking  dogs  or  leaking  roofs. 
He  breathed  free  air,  however,  now  that  Trimbill  was 
gone,  pulled  his  desk  out  of  the  corner  where  they  had  put 
him,  and  began  to  savor  responsibility.  George  was  put- 
ting up  signs ;  his  father  was  in  Philadelphia ;  it  was  a  good 
day  for  opportunity  to  come  around. 

It  came,  late  that  afternoon,  disguised  in  the  person  of 
a  fat  man  enormously  mustached,  dressed  in  sober,  shiny 
black  and  a  blue  necktie  that  protruded  like  a  bouquet 
from  his  starched  shirt  front,  but  with  a  suggestion  about 
him  nevertheless  of  ear-rings  and  a  bandanna  not  long  dis- 
carded. He  pushed  his  rounded  waistcoat  against  the 
office  rail  with  the  air  of  one  well  regarded  among  his  own 
people;  yet  when  Robert  rose  and  offered  a  ready  hand, 
he  doffed  his  solemnity  like  a  cap,  and  shot  back  his  lips 
into  a  dazzling  smile. 

"  Come  sta  ?  "  asked  Robert,  trying  familiarity  a  little 
doubtfully. 


INTERMEZZO  61 

"  Sta  ben',"  he  replied  with  laughter  that  shook  him  like 
a  custard.  "  You  want  to  spik  Italian  %  No  ?  Well,  I 
spika  English  just  as  well." 

His  name  was  Antonio  Chigi.  He  wanted  a  house; — 
not  a  tenement,  not  a  house  on  Pine  Street  where,  as 
Robert  knew,  most  of  his  compatriots  were  living; 
but  a  "  residenza  "  on  the  hill,  with  a  bath-room,  Ameri- 
can style,  and  especially  the  house  to  be  of  brick. 

"  Of  brick  —  of  brick,"  Robert  echoed  him  thoughtfully, 
shaping  his  face  to  the  tone  of  TrimbilPs  omniscience, 
while  intuition  cried  within  that  here  was  a  pretty  prob- 
lem, involving  a  principle.  The  new  American  in  search 
of  a  home!  What  did  he  want  —  no,  what  ought  he  to 
want?  That  was  the  question.  Robert's  mind  raced 
through  possibilities.  The  Miller  house,  decayed  but  still 
impressive.  He  could  not  visualize  Mr.  Chigi  in  an  ex- 
Colonial  environment.  There  was  —  a  picture  of 
Reilley's  row  flashed  upon  the  screen  of  his  memory. 
Raw,  red,  hopelessly  uniform,  Reilley's  row  sat  upon  a 
hillside  above  the  river,  and  just  beyond  the  last  paved 
street  of  the  town.  An  Irish  builder  in  a  moment  of  se- 
nile optimism  had  built  it  on  credit,  and  then  handed  over 
its  twenty  houses  to  a  Western  bank  without  a  struggle. 
A  row  in  the  city  was  possible,  at  least  in  Millingtown, 
where  people  liked  to  herd  in  little  houses  just  alike  to 
the  very  moldings  on  the  front  porch ;  but  a  row  set  in  a 
ragged  field  above  a  street  of  clay,  suggested  home  about 
as  much  as  the  back  drop  of  a  vaudeville  theater.  And  yet 
—  intuition  kept  knocking  at  the  back  of  Robert's  brain 
with  some  idea  in  her  fist.  The  agent  that  sold  those 
houses,  half  of  them,  one  of  them,  could  have  any  commis- 
sion he  chose  to  ask.  Robert  had  heard  his  father  say  so. 
Intuition  had  her  will.     "  Here's  your  house,"  he  said 


62  OUR  HOUSE 

with  all  the  assurance  he  could  muster,  took  a  photograph 
from  the  files,  and  held  it  out  a  little  hesitantly.  "  On  the 
hill,  bath-tut),  cheap, —  and  very  brick." 

Mr.  Chigi  wiped  his  thumb  and  finger  on  his  trousers, 
then  took  the  photograph.     "  Whicha  one  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Any  one,"  cried  Kobert  magnificently.  a  We'll  let 
you  take  your  choice."  If  only  you  were  a  pigeon  or  a 
prairie  dog  I'd  get  you,  he  thought,  as  he  looked  over  the 
fat  shoulder  at  the  bare  brickness  of  the  picture.  "  Bath- 
tubs in  each  and  all,"  he  urged  hopefully.  "  And  if  you'll 
come  out  with  me  I'll  show  you  something  that  will  please 
you."     What  it  was  only  intuition  knew. 

The  front  of  Reilley's  row  glaring  in  the  late  sun  above 
its  terrace  of  clay  and  weeds  was  so  forbidding  that 
Robert  Roberts  hurried  him  into  the  first  house  and  banged 
the  door  on  the  hot  street  without.  Alas,  it  was  the  brick 
that  had  enchanted  his  client.  Mr.  Chigi  felt  of  the  bril- 
liant wall  papers  in  the  narrow  hall,  pinched  the  golden 
oak  moldings,  prodded  the  brass  fixtures  as  if  they  were 
baskets  of  fruit.  All  the  time  he  kept  up  a  dubious  mur- 
mur of  "  ma's  "  and  "  che's."  What  ought  he  to  want, 
this  new  American  fresh  from  a  tenement,  and  before  that 
a  hovel  in  Naples  or  Sicily!  The  bath-tub!  Robert 
scored  there.  Antonio  Chigi  rubbed  the  nickel  faucets 
luxuriously.  He  spouted  the  water  on  and  off,  like  a 
child.  u  I'll  get  him  with  the  furnace,"  Robert  thought. 
Mr.  Chigi  was  enraptured  with  the  furnace.  He  fol- 
lowed the  hot-air  pipes  on  their  path  across  the  cellar 
with  rolling,  yellow  eyes.  His  "  si  —  si  —  si  "  volleyed 
sibilantly  when  Robert  made  a  burning  newspaper  roar 
up  the  draft.  But  the  coal  bin  brought  collapse.  The 
passion  for  living  American  style  was  chilled  by  the 
prospect   of   such   expense.     He   shrugged    portentously. 


INTERMEZZO  63 

"  Costa  too  much  to  keep  warm."  The  agent  was  de- 
pressed. 

And  then,  as  they  climbed  back  up  the  cellar  stairs, 
Robert,  thinking  hard,  flung  open  a  door  that  led  from  the 
dining  room  to  the  back  porches.  And  there  was  intuition 
waiting  on  the  sill.  Clear,  cool  north  light  from  the 
spaces  above  the  river  flooded  into  the  little  rooms;  the 
river  lay  in  misty  blue  below  them;  a  heavy  steamer 
crawled  down  its  midst ;  white  sails  of  yawls  and  cat  boats 
flecked  the  surface;  far  below  on  the  dim  horizon  one 
guessed  the  sea.  "  In  the  evening,"  said  Robert,  squeez- 
ing his  victim  through  the  doorway,  "  it  will  be  like  a 
mirror.  You  can  sit  here  by  moonlight  watching  the 
steamers  from  Genoa  or  Naples.  It's  like  the  Bay  of 
Naples,  or  — "  he  guessed  — "  Messina."  The  guess  went 
home.     Mr.  Chigi's  yellow  eyes  began  to  glisten. 

H  And  now,"  said  Robert  Roberts  with  the  calm  confi- 
dence of  the  creative  artist  who  grasps  his  idea  in  its  en- 
tirety, "  look  at  the  yards."  They  were  indeed  deep,  and 
sloping  down  toward  the  river.  "  Look !  "  cried  the  boy, 
and  vaulting  the  rail,  stepped  out  on  the  sparse  turf  be- 
neath. "  A  vine  here,  another  here,  some  flowers, —  and 
there  you  are  under  your  own  shade  drinking  a  glass  of 
beer  while  the  sun  is  setting  —  how  about  thai,  Mr. 
Chigi !  " 

Mr.  Chigi  was  dubious.  His  yellow  eyes  surveyed  the 
slopes  of  burdock  and  pepper  weed,  the  strewn  fragments 
of  plaster  and  broken  brick.  Then  they  began  to  glow, 
to  glint.  He  raised  one  leg  to  the  railing,  hove,  struggled, 
and  plumped  down  beside  Robert.  "  No,"  he  puffed ;  then 
as  the  fire  of  imagination  warmed  him,  "  no,  no,  no,  no. 
Here  is  the  place  for  grapes,  to  run  up  the  porcha  and 
make  a  divisamento  between  the  houses,  and  here  will  be 


64  OUR  HOUSE 

the  giardino  — "  he  trotted  off  a  little  rectangle  on  the 
lower  slope. — "  But  not  flowers,  no,  no, —  peppers,  mel- 
lone,  the  cherry,  the  peach,  the  apple,  the  pear."  He  ran 
about  pointing  with  thick  forefinger,  swinging  up  to  show 
the  height  of  the  trees,  spreading  his  pudgy  arms  to  repre- 
sent branching  fronds  of  the  vines. 

"No,"  said  Robert  firmly.  "  You'll  have  to  put  in 
some  flowers.  Every  American  garden  has  flowers."  Mr. 
Chigi  wavered.  "  Oh,  yes,  American  now,"  he  conceded. 
I've  got  him,  Robert  thought,  he  wants  to  seem  an  Ameri- 
can but  live  like  an  Italian.  "  Well,"  he  drawled  aloud 
and  indifferently,  "  buy  the  house.  Two  thousand  dol- 
lars. Eive  per  cent  off  for  cash."  While  Mr.  Chigi  re- 
flected, his  eye  wandered  down  the  line  of  back  porches, 
draping  pleasant  curves  of  grape  leaves  and  the  green  of 
shrubs  and  trees  along  their  harsh  angles.  They  really 
wouldn't  be  bad,  if  Italians  planted  all  of  them,  he  thought ; 
then  turned  in  a  flash  on  Antonio  Chigi.  "  Buy  'em  all," 
he  cried,  "  and  take  the  five  per  cent  yourself  on  delayed 
payment.  Sell  the  row  to  your  friends.  Think  of  it  here 
in  the  evenings, —  everybody  out,  music,  children  playing 
in  the  gardens,  a  festa  every  night!  Why  they'll  jump 
at  the  chance  to  move  here  from  Pine  Street.  And  bath- 
tubs, and  electric  light,  and  all  brick  — " 

The  Italian's  eyes  gleamed,  then  narrowed  into  shrewd- 
ness. A  shrug  began  at  his  waist  and  rolled  upward  to 
his  ears.     "  Ah,  but  th'  money,  th'  money !  " 

Robert  sighed.  How  could  you  do  big  business  in  real 
estate  ?  "  Oh,  well,  of  course  you  can't  buy  them  all," 
he  said  regretfully.     "  Let's  talk  about  this  one." 

"  You  giva  me  ten  per  cent  off  and  I  buy  the  whole 
row,"  said  the  Italian  very  simply  but  with  a  certain 
grandeur  of  emotion.  It  was  "  big  business  "  for  him  too. 
"  I  sign  the  contract  now,  and  getta  th'  money  in  thirty 


INTERMEZZO  65 

days.  It  shall  be  the  Chigi  villas.  No?"  He  smiled 
like  a  pleased,  embarrassed  child.     "  Now  we  sign." 

Eobert  pulled  out  the  form  of  contract  with  trembling 
fingers.  Happy  thoughts  flowered  one  after  the  other  in 
his  thrilling  brain.  This  wasn't  luck.  He  had  solved  a 
problem.  He  had  grasped  a  principle  and  made  it  work. 
But  a  warning  impulse  made  him  drop  the  pen  and  look 
up  at  the  flushed  face  of  Mr.  Chigi.  "  Are  you  sure  that 
you  can  get  them  here  —  your  friends  —  to  the  Chigi 
villas  ?  "  he  asked,  pumping  caution  into  his  tones.  Mr. 
Chigi  gestured  to  the  river,  the  sky,  the  porches,  the  weedy 
clay  that  was  to  be  gardens.  "  I  talka  your  talk,"  he  said 
confidently, — "  mellone,  grapes,  festas,  and  the  steamer 
going  past  to  Naples  and  Messina.  The  Italians  in  this 
town  have  plenty  money.  They  want  live  like  American 
in  house  of  brick.  You  see.  Eirst  one  come,  then  all." 
He  put  down  five  hundred  dollars  in  dirty  bills  to  bind  the 
bargain.  "  You  tell  your  father  you  good  real  estate 
agent.  He  buy  bannan'  and  orange  from  me  many  year. 
Now  I  buy."  Beatific  exaltation  lit  his  soggy  features. 
They  shook  hands,  happy  men  both. 

It  was  too  late  to  go  back  to  the  office,  and  so  Robert 
Roberts  swung  westwards  over  the  hill  and  down  through 
the  awakening  life  of  late  afternoon  in  the  upper  town. 
His  first  success  tingled  in  his  blood.  Cousin  Tom  called 
to  him  from  the  porch  of  his  house,  coldly  ironical,  as 
usual,  "  How's  real  estate  ? "  and  "  Flourishing,"  he  an- 
swered with  a  firmness  of  accent  that  drew  its  source  from 
the  roll  of  bills  in  his  inner  pocket.  And  then  his  thoughts 
that  had  been  tied  for  all  these  weeks  to  routine  broke 
loose  and  went  soaring  over  the  tree  tops  to  the  Alps,  the 
North  Woods,  Italy,  in  a  rainbow-tinted  whirl  of  which 
the  center  was  happiness  and  the  periphery  wide  as  life. 
In  the  dim  shade  of  the  maples  next  to  "  our  house  "  he  saw 


66  OUK  HOUSE 

Miss  Sharpe  watering  her  scarlet  sage.  She  suited  his 
mood.  He  crossed  the  street,  vaulted  the  fence,  and  came 
up  quietly  on  the  turf  behind  her. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  What  have  you  been  doing  ? 
Why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me  ?  "  She  dropped  the  hose 
regardless  of  flying  water  drops.  "  And  how  do  you  like 
business  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Hang  business."  The  monster  that  had  threatened 
to  devour  him  was  tamed,  was  as  good  as  harnessed.  His 
thoughts  were  free !  Business,  he  told  her  easily,  stopped 
at  five  o'clock.  Who  wanted  to  talk  of  real  estate  at  sun- 
set time?  And  indeed  through  the  maples  and  the  bold 
branches  of  the  Norway  spruce,  a  delicate  lavendar  light 
fell  gently  from  the  west,  touching  the  freshly  watered 
plants  with  soft  greens,  and  misting  down  upon  them  from 
the  old  gray  stone  of  the  house  above.  She  did  not  under- 
stand his  mood,  and  studied  his  laughing  face  a  little 
distrustfully.  Indeed,  she  would  not  have  understood  that 
so  trivial  a  thing  as  a  real-estate  deal  had  given  him  self- 
confidence  at  last.  But  suddenly  her  eyes  took  fire  from 
his  enthusiasm,  and  turning  with  a  quick  excuse,  she  ran 
into  the  house  for  a  book.  "  Listen,"  she  said  reverently ; 
and  from  a  little  green  volume,  stamped  "  Edinburgh," 
she  read : 

"  Does  not  life  go  down  with  a  better  grace,  foaming  in 
full  body  over  a  precipice,  than  miserably  straggling  to  an 
end  in  sandy  deltas  ?  When  the  Greeks  made  their  fine 
saying  that  those  whom  the  Gods  love  die  young,  I  cannot 
help  believing  they  had  this  sort  of  death  also  in  their  eye. 
For  surely,  at  whatever  age  it  overtakes  the  man,  this  is 
to  die  young.  Death  has  not  been  suffered  to  take  so  much 
as  an  illusion  from  his  heart.  In  the  hot-fit  of  life,  a-tip- 
toe  on  the  highest  point  of  being,  he  passes  at  a  bound  on  to 
the  other  side.     The  noise  of  the  mallet  and  chisel  is 


INTERMEZZO  67 

scarcely  quenched,  the  trumpets  are  hardly  done  blowing, 
when,  trailing  with  him  clouds  of  glory,  this  happy- 
starred,  full-blooded  spirit  shoots  into  the  spiritual  land." 

"  It  sounds  like  —  Stevenson,"  he  said  softly.  u  Did 
he  write  things  like  that  —  as  well  as  stories !  '  Death 
has  not  been  suffered  to  take  so  much  as  an  illusion  from 
his  heart.'  Isn't  that  great ! "  Not  the  thought,  not  his 
own  burning  desire  to  live  on  the  highest  point  of  being, 
but  just  the  rhythm,  the  glory  of  the  words  intoxicated 
him.  "  '  The  trumpets  are  hardly  done  blowing,'  "  he 
murmured ;  and  suddenly  a  passionate  longing  seized  him 
to  find  and  use  and  control  such  thoughts,  such  words  as 
these.  Stepping  on  Mr.  Chigi's  fat  shoulders  he  mounted 
up  in  an  instant  from  the  lower  air  still  astir  with  his  first 
triumph  in  business,  into  an  ether  electric  with  more  gor- 
geous aspiration.  "  When  I  see  and  feel  things,"  he  said 
dreamily,  "  and  can't  say  them,  it  hurts  me.  I  don't  think 
it  would  hurt  me  so  if  I  didn't  have  the  power  in  me  to  say 
them  some  day.  Do  you  ?  "  and  without  waiting  for  her 
answer  he  flung  his  mind  ahead  into  the  ardors  and  the 
difficulties  of  the  task.  Thus  the  young  Stendhal  emerg- 
ing from  the  passage  of  the  Alps,  a  tested  soldier,  glorying 
in  the  realization  of  his  dream,  entered  Milan,  heard  at 
the  Scala  Italian  music  for  the  first  time,  forgot  his  am- 
bitions, forgot  war,  and  in  that  instant  vowed  himself  for 
life  to  the  pursuit  of  the  arts.  But  a  Stendhal  in  Milling- 
town! 

They  talked  on  in  the  August  twilight,  the  girl  scanning 
curiously  the  new  power,  the  new  resolution  in  Robert 
Roberts'  voice,  trying  vainly  to  guess  its  cause.  He  was 
so  nai've  and  yet  so  confident.  Critically  viewed,  he 
seemed  to  her  almost  a  boy;  and  yet  she  felt  stirring 
somewhere  that  strange  creative  force  which  remolds 
even  when  it  does  not  understand,  which  frightens  the 


68  OUK  HOUSE 

merely  intellectual  mind  by  its  possession  of  the  mysteri- 
ous, illogical  intuitions  of  life.  "  I  want  to  get  free  so 
that  I  can  experiment  with  myself,"  he  was  saying. 
a  That's  why  —  or,"  he  corrected  himself  to  be  honest  — 
"  that's  partly  why  I'm  working  so  hard  at  business.  I 
want  to  satisfy  the  family,  and  make  some  money,  and 
then  be  free.  It  isn't  hard  to  make  money  —  that  is, 
money  enough.  Why  to-day  — "  he  stopped  short,  de- 
ciding that  the  company's  affairs  did  not  belong  in  his 
confidence.  "  Well,  I  made  a  start.  By  next  year  I'll 
be  grub-staked, —  I'll  have  enough,  I  mean."  Enough ! 
A  sudden  vision  of  Katherine  Gray,  without  warning, 
without  apparent  reason  flashed  through  his  mind.  He 
felt  for  the  thought  that  lay  behind  and  drove  it  back. 
"  I  must  experiment  —  first,"  he  said,  and  did  not  ex- 
plain the  "  first,"  even  to  himself. 

Mary  Sharpe  turned  the  leaves  of  the  book  in  her  hand, 
reading  its  title,  "  Virginibus  Puerisque,"  idly  from  page 
to  page  until  it  began  to  burn  into  her  mind  and  fuse  with 
the  thought  that  was  forming  there.  She  felt  suddenly 
sterile  and  lonely  and  almost  old.  Had  she  sought  a  friend 
for  her  mind,  and  found  that  already  she  could  not  com- 
panion with  such  youth?  Eor  she  wanted  to  appreciate, 
to  know ;  he  seemed  to  care  only  to  be  and  to  do.  A  pang- 
ing realization  of  the  unfruitfulness  of  her  self-regarding 
life  turned  and  burned  in  the  girl's  thoughts.  In  defense 
she  resorted  to  self-praise.  "  I  wish  I  could  help  you," 
she  murmured,  with  a  humbleness  unnecessarily  empha- 
sized. 

Robert  blushed  purple.  "  Help  me !  If  you  only 
would!  But  you've  always  been  my  chief  stimulus; — 
and  discouragement,  because  all  the  things  I'm  not,  you 
seem  to  be  so  easily.  If  you'll  let  me  show  you  the  things 
I'm  trying  to  write,  perhaps  I'll  feel  more  equal  with  you. 


INTERMEZZO  69 

I  don't  mean  that  they're  any  good ;  but  — "  he  felt  for  the 
explanation  of  his  thought  — "  the  ideas  anyhow  are  mine: 
—  it's  not  as  with  a  picture  or  a  cathedral  where  you  have 
to  teach  me  everything." 

Miss  Sharpe  picked  up  the  hose  again  and  sent  a 
dancing,  shimmering  stream  across  the  hedge  and  over  the 
neat  beds  in  front  of  "  our  house."  "  If  I'm  to  be  your 
Pallas  Athene,"  she  said  a  little  viciously,  "  look  out  for 
some  sharp  words.  I'm  not  in  tune  with  respectability  or 
smugness,  or  Millingtown  in  general.  I'm  pagan,  Robert 
Roberts." 

"  Pagan  !  "  He  looked  at  her  in  such  surprise  that  she 
blushed  and  laughed  more  cheerily.  "  Pagan  "  mystified 
him.  Did  she  mean  wicked,  or  irreverent,  or  what  ? 
"  I've  heard  Cousin  Jenny  call  you  heathen,"  he  suggested 
slyly.  "  Is  that  the  same  as  heathen  ?  Or  do  you  mean 
smoking  cigarettes  ?  Ouch !  "  for  she  had  turned  the  hose 
on  him  and  he  had  to  jump  the  hedge  and  hurdle  the 
muddy,  shining  flower  beds  to  safety  on  the  front  steps  of 
our  house. 

The  sight  of  his  father's  hat  on  the  hall  table  brought 
business  back  with  a  rush,  and  hurried  him  into  the  library, 
breathing  a  little  fast  with  the  pride  of  achievement.  At 
the  door  his  mother  was  standing,  watching  with  what 
seemed  to  be  pain  and  care.  "  All  right,"  she  said  hastily 
as  he  checked  his  impetuous  speech.  "  Father's  a  little 
tired  from  his  trip.  Why !  — "  she  smiled  at  his  trium- 
phant face. 

"  Oh,  nothing  much  " —  but  his  pleasure  would  not  be 
denied.  All  his  efforts,  so  it  seemed  now,  had  looked  for 
their  reward  to  this  one  happy  moment  when  he  should 
tell  the  story  at  home.  "  Well,  I've  sold  Reilley's  row, 
father  —  every  last  house  of  it." 

John  Roberts  was  settled  back  in  his  arm  chair,  rather 


70  OUK  HOUSE 

white  and  breathless.  He  looked  querulous  and  old,  and 
did  not  seem  to  understand  until  his  son  repeated,  "  Reil- 
ley's  row."  Even  then  his  look  wandered.  "  Sold,"  he 
said  quickly.     "  Who  to  ?     How  much  ?  " 

Robert's  fine  enthusiasm  began  to  chill,  but  he  remem- 
bered the  five  hundred  dollars  in  his  inner  pocket  and  spoke 
up  confidently.  When  he  had  finished  John  Eoberts  still 
sat  there,  limp  and  unresponding,  except  that  the  light  of 
intelligence  had  come  back  to  his  eyes  and  flickered  there 
balefully.  "  He  can't  raise  the  money  for  more  than  one 
house,"  he  said  at  last  huskily.  "  I  know.  I'm  director 
in  his  bank.  Perhaps  he  can't  do  that.  Where'll  we  be 
with  a  sale  contract  signed,  and  no  guarantee,  if  that  West- 
ern Trust  Company  gets  after  us?  You  ought  to  have 
known  he  couldn't.  How  would  he  get  ten  thousand 
dollars  from  oranges  and  bananas  \  " 

Eobert  pulled  the  bills  from  his  pocket  and  laid  them 
on  the  chair  arm.  "  There's  a  starter."  He  smiled  cour- 
ageously at  his  mother ;  but  he  knew  by  the  sinking  of  his 
heart  that  his  father  was  right.  "  You've  made  an  ass  of 
yourself,"  he  thought  dismally. 

"  How  many  houses  hast  thee  sold  to-day,  Roberts  Jun- 
ior ?  "  asked  Cousin  Jenny,  popping  her  head  through  the 
hydrangeas  that  overhung  the  garden  window. 

"  One,"  Robert  answered  hesitantly.  Then  his  spirits 
rose  in  sudden  revulsion.  u  But  I've  made  a  man  want  to 
buy  twenty  —  Isn't  that  going  some  ?  "  Intuition  told 
him  that  it  was ;  that  perhaps  it  was  better  than  immediate 
success;  that  perhaps  it  was  worth  the  stigma  of  having 
been  an  ass.  I've  found  a  principle  in  their  old  business, 
he  thought  defensively.  I've  learned  how  to  sell.  Then 
aloud :  "  Look  here,  father.  I'll  make  a  sporting  prop- 
osition. We're  in  for  the  Chigi  villas,  good  or  bad.  Now 
let  me  have  a  day's  vacation  for  each  house  that  goes 


INTERMEZZO  71 

through.  If  he  takes  the  whole  row  over  this  year,  I  win 
two  weeks.  If  he  takes  only  one  house,  you  gain  five 
days  of  my  invaluable  services."  The  women  were  re- 
lieved by  his  gaiety. 

"  John  Roberts,  thee  looks  as  if  thee  needed  a  vacation,'' 
Cousin  Jenny  remarked  pointedly.  Robert  did  not  catch 
the  guarded  anxiety  of  her  tones.  He  had  thrust  both  his 
humiliation  and  the  deeper  self-confidence  that  followed  it 
back  into  the  day's  work,  and,  chin  on  knees,  upon  the  win- 
dow ledge  beside  the  fireplace,  was  striving  to  put  into 
words  the  quiet  room  in  dim  twilight,  the  friendly  voice 
beneath  the  shadowy  hydrangeas,  and  the  atmosphere  of 
home. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PASTORALE 

IN  August  a  storm  came  up  from  the  bay,  swashing  and 
slashing  with  warm,  wet  winds  and  hurled  deluges,  the 
stale  air  of  the  city,  washing  clean  the  dusty  trees,  bubbling 
down  the  caked  gutters,  roaring  over  the  heatbaked  houses, 
—  and  in  the  morning  it  was  clear,  crisp  September. 
Cousin  Jenny  was  stirring  in  the  garden  while  the  drops 
were  still  falling  from  the  leaves,  whistling  a  merry, 
cracked  whistle.  Blue  ridged  and  rimmed  the  world. 
The  air  that  swayed  the  curtains  of  his  bed-room  was  alive ; 
fresh  dawn  had  lingered  into  day. 

Eobert  Eoberts  sprang  out  of  bed  feeling  a  great  pull  on 
his  heart.  That  first  whiff  of  reviving  coolness  was  always 
the  prelude  to  going  back  to  college.  For  a  moment  he 
longed  for  the  old  life  with  all  his  nature.  He  wanted  to 
swing  back  into  the  old  circle  with  the  first  frosts,  to  drop 
back  into  his  place  in  college,  and  on  with  his  cap  and 
sweater ;  and  then  with  somebody's  arm  on  his  shoulder,  to 
brazen  down  Chapel  Street  hailing  familiar  faces,  at  home 
in  his  own  world  and  caring  for  no  other.  He  wanted  to 
talk  through  a  night;  he  wanted  to  hear  Johnny  Bolt's 
laugh ;  he  wanted  to  tickle  Dug ;  and  to  walk  swiftly  with 
Bill  across  the  hills  in  cold  moonlight  on  an  October  night. 
All  summer  it  had  been  dim  and  far  away,  this  old  life, — 
now  it  gripped  him  dizzily. 

The  vivid  longing  passed  like  the  storm,  but  left  him 
tossing  upon  uncontrollable  desires.  It  was  done,  it  was 
dead,  that  college  life ;  —  when  they  had  all  made  good  it 

72 


PASTOEALE  73 

would  be  time  to  renew  it.  But  nevertheless  he  had  tasted 
romance  after  a  long  drouth.  Seeing  the  tree-tops  etched 
against  the  brilliant  sky,  the  joyful  air-cleaving  swallows, 
the  limpid  clarity  above,  around,  beyond,  he  craved  more. 
The  sun  warmed  him  where  he  stood  on  the  rug  and  set  rosy 
thoughts,  flashed  through  with  gold,  afloat  in  his  imagina- 
tion :  deep  woods  atingle  with  crisp  airs  and  falling  leaves ; 
a  running  plunge  from  a  grassy  hilltop  in  long  strides 
down  through  the  asters  and  the  golden-rod  into  the  heart 
of  rich  meadow-land;  a  stretch  of  wild  sunlit  water,  his 
canoe  sliding  gloriously  down  the  steep  pitch  above  a  pool. 
Gradually  a  feeling  of  warm  companionship,  a  giddy  de- 
sire, a  figure  began  to  shape  itself  beside  him.  She  ran 
beside  him;  she  swung  from  the  low  spread  boughs  of  an 
orchard  in  exultant  freedom;  she  sat  beside  him  on  the 
riverbank  in  thrilling  intimacy.  Suddenly  every  fiber  of 
his  body  longed  for  —  woman.  The  old  romance  of  col- 
lege was  dead.  The  casual  flirtations  of  the  Millingtown 
summer  —  two-steps  on  the  old  mill  floor,  chatterings  on 
moonlit  porches,  picnics  and  endless  nothings  talked  dully 
to  old  friends  —  all  that  was  too  cold.  He  wanted  sensa- 
tion more  primitive,  more  genuine;  he  wanted,  not  love 
perhaps,  not  love  yet,  but  some  one  aquiver  with  femininity. 
He  wanted  —  and  now  he  knew  —  to  fling  himself  out  into 
the  golden  September  world  with  Katherine  Gray  beside 
him. 

Cousin  Jenny  saw  him  dreaming  away  in  his  pyjamas 
before  the  open  window,  and  hooted  at  him.  He  dove  for 
shelter  in  hot  confusion,  and  slid  into  his  clothes.  But  as 
he  dressed  thoughts  ran  faster  than  fingers.  Trimbill  was 
back ;  Chigi  had  postponed  the  Chigi  villas,  as  prophesied, 
but  paid  for  a  single  house;  he  was  entitled  to  a  holiday; 
—  and  Katherine  Gray  was  visiting  on  upper  Brandywine. 

His  mood  lasted  and  so  did  the  weather.     The  next 


74  OUK  HOUSE 

morning,  while  the  sun  was  still  slanting  across  the  corn 
fields,  he  was  winding  up  the  Brandywine  on  the  little  rail- 
road that  leaves  Millingtown  to  search  out  the  river's  source 
in  the  Welsh  hills.  A  clear  breeze  from  the  north  swept 
the  engine  smoke  over  the  fields,  whirling  it  through  quiet 
farm  yards  and  in  black  shadows  across  lush  pastures  and 
over  slopes  still  fresh  with  dew.  He  thrust  open  a  dirty 
window,  and  settling  back  in  a  seat  corner,  let  the  wind 
blow  back  his  hair  while  he  watched  the  old  gray  houses 
swing  forth  one  by  one  from  their  encircling  groves,  and 
the  swirling  river  loop  forward  and  back  across  the  meadow 
floor.  His  glance  caught  the  glowing  green  shadows  of  a 
beech  wood ;  fell  upon  a  hill  of  golden-rod,  frosty  gold  in 
the  early  sunlight;  sought  and  found  the  dim  pool  into 
which  Pocopson  rapids  pour,  and  glimpsed  a  single  red 
maple  flaming  from  its  depths.  From  the  grove  above,  a 
tulip  poplar  lifted  its  slender  column  like  a  chant.  He 
could  have  knelt  before  its  beauty.  Then  round  they 
swung  on  horseshoe  curve,  and  into  a  cloud  of  smoke  that 
blotted  out  nature  but  left  the  fine,  illuminating  frenzy. 
Such  beauty  had  always  stirred  him ;  now  it  thrilled  along 
his  nerves  into  aspiration  and  idea  and  resolve. 

A  question  came  winging  from  the  depths  of  sub-con- 
sciousness. That  other  emotion  —  companionship,  with 
woman,  with  Katherine  Gray  —  would  that  also  go  deeper 
now,  mean  more,  lead  to  more  ?  He  shifted  uneasily 
and  put  the  thought  aside.  It  was  pleasanter  to  imagine 
wandering  boy  and  girl  wise  through  the  meadows.  After 
all,  he  was  only  twenty-one.  Why  not  be  a  faun  while  one 
could,  and  live  in  to-day ! 

Some  one  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  He  turned 
quickly  and  saw  a  familiar  face  grinning.  "  Hello,  Eob 
Koberts."     It  was  Joe  Eankin,  from  school. 

"  Hello,  Joe.     What  you  doing  up  here  ? "     Looking 


PASTOEALE  75 

him  over,  Robert  noted  what  seemed  to  be  a  rather  pro- 
fessional air.     "  Working  ?  " 

Eankin  sat  down  beside  him,  thrusting  a  package  of 
bulky  envelopes  into  his  pocket.  "  I'm  assistant-freight 
manager  on  this  road ;  —  just  going  up  to  Reading  to  look 
into  some  business  there." 

Robert,  looking  at  his  workaday  garb  and  the  lines  of 
responsibility  on  his  face,  felt  suddenly  very  young. 
"  That's  a  pretty  good  job,  isn't  it  I  " 

"  It  has  to  be,"  said  Rankin  briefly.  "  I've  got  a  wife 
and  two  kids  to  support.  Say,  did  you  know  Jim  Parker 
died  last  week  in  the  Philippines  ?  " 

Robert  answered  vacantly.  The  fact  that  Joe  had  a 
wife  and  two  children  seemed  of  much  more  importance 
than  the  death  of  a  half-remembered  school  friend  in  the 
East.  Was  Joe  perhaps  thinking  that  this  college  young- 
ling ought  to  be  married  and  supporting  some  one  ?  The 
faun  hypothesis  lost  some  of  its  brilliancy. 

"  Going  canoeing  ?  "  Joe  asked  indulgently.  u  Well, 
when  my  family  gets  a  little  older,  I  may  put  a  boat  on 
the  river  too.  Say,  isn't  that  girl  a  peach!  "  The  train 
was  slowing  down  so  rapidly  that  a  dog-cart  on  the  road 
beside  them  just  kept  pace.  "  I  wouldn't  mind  taking  her 
down  stream." 

Robert  stood  up  guiltily  to  reach  for  his  duffle. 
"  You've  had  your  chance,  old  man,"  he  said  with  rather 
awkward  bravado.  "  Give  the  bachelors  a  turn."  But  as 
he  hurried  down  the  aisle,  he  knew  his  ears  were  burning ; 
indeed,  he  stepped  out  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  train  so  that 
the  married  man  should  not  be  looking  on  when  he  greeted 
Katherine  Gray. 

As  he  waited  for  the  train  to  pull  out,  he  wondered,  re- 
membering a  sociological  theory,  whether  it  was  the  mores 
of  the  South  —  relatives  that  had  died  for  the  lost  cause, 


76  OUK  HOUSE 

chivalry,  love  as  a  kind  of  business  of  life,  recklessness  and 
the  rest  of  it  as  a  background  —  that  made  him  see  her 
always  through  a  haze  of  romance,  or  whether  it  was  Kath- 
erine  herself.  "Both,  I  guess,"  he  thought  as  he  heard 
her  soft  slurring  voice  on  the  platform  beyond.  And  then 
he  stopped  speculating,  for  there  she  was,  laughing  at  his 
sheepish  face,  with  nobody  but  a  vanishing  hired  man  in 
the  dog  cart,  an  indifferent  station  agent,  and  the  two  of 
them  in  the  vivid  sunlight.  "  You  silly  boy,"  she  whis- 
pered.    "  Stop  looking  at  me  that  way." 

"  I  have  to,"  he  said  simply.  "  It's  been  a  month  since 
I've  looked  at  you.  I  must  see  whether  I've  been  thinking 
of  you  rightly,  just  as  you  are."  And  indeed,  though  the 
exquisite  lines  of  Katherine's  face,  the  gold  gleams  of  hair, 
and  the  bloom,  and  the  iris  youth  of  her  were  as  he  could 
ever  recall  them  since  she  thrilled  him  first,  a  girl  of  six- 
teen, with  curls  still  floating,  there  was  a  warmth  in  her 
glance  that  he  did  not  know.  She  had  turned  from  his 
gaze,  and  was  scampering  down  through  the  shadowy  woods 
to  the  river,  snatching  a  handful  of  asters  to  droop  from 
her  belt,  unpinning  her  hat  as  she  ran.  He  hauled  the 
canoe  from  the  freight  house  and  slid  it  quickly  across  the 
smooth  turf.  A  late  meadow  lark  was  singing;  drifts  of 
swallows  curved  above  the  trees. 

They  stowed  away  the  duffle  and,  pushing  off,  slipped 
swiftly  through  the  narrows  where  blue  bells  flowered  in 
May,  gently  over  the  shallows  beside  the  cattle  knee-deep 
and  dreaming,  then  with  a  quick  rush  down  the  gurgling 
rapids  and  into  the  lazy  waters  of  Lenape  dam. 

As  they  drifted  Katherine's  mood  changed  from  gay  to 
grave,  from  grave  to  gay,  like  the  shadows  following  sun- 
light on  the  stream.  Sometimes  she  teased  him  with 
chance  gossip  of  summer  flirtations ;  then  dropping  to  sud- 
den earnestness  asked  him  to  look  into  her  eyes.     "  Do  I 


PASTOEALE  77 

not  look  older  ?  "  Was  it  whimsy  ?  Was  it  the  growing 
seriousness  of  his  business  life  that  made  her  seem  more 
fairy-like,  more  divinely  youthful  than  on  moonlit  nights 
at  the  hilltop  in  those  college  summers  ? 

After  a  while  the  lonely  river  induced  confidences.  He 
told  her  a  little  of  his  ambitions,  hesitating  upon  a  full 
avowal  of  all  the  misty  things  he  wished  to  do,  hesitating 
because  he  wondered  if  she  would  be  interested,  if  she 
would  understand.  His  lighter  coin  she  repaid  with  the 
full  gold  of  intimacy,  telling  him  what  he  had  guessed  but 
never  knew,  of  her  mother's  decline  in  fortunes,  of  the 
brother's  struggle  to  save  the  last  of  the  old  estate.  Her 
voice  grew  languid,  her  paddle  dragged  idly  through  the 
water.  After  a  while  she  flung  herself  backward  from  the 
seat  and  nestled  in  the  cushions  between  the  thwarts. 

"  Don't  upset  us,  Kath." 

"  I  won't,  silly.  Don't  talk.  I'm  going  to  bask  in  the 
sun." 

Her  head  was  against  the  backboard  below  him.  One 
shoulder  touched  his  knee ;  he  could  feel  its  warmth.  Her 
eyes  were  closed.  Her  throat  was  rosy  in  the  sunlight; 
her  hair  shimmered  rainbow-gold.  Changing  his  stroke  to 
a  silent  deer  paddle,  he  guided  onward  down  "a  river  of 
dreams,  between  hills  that  opened  ever  southward,  quiet 
farms,  and  mellow  woods.  The  silence  was  more  com- 
panionable than  speech.  Once  she  opened  her  eyes  and 
smiled  at  him  looking  down  upon  her,  then  shut  them  tight 
and  blushed.  As  he  watched  the  faint  crimson  streaming 
through  her  cheeks,  his  heart  began  to  throb.  He  was  hun- 
gry for  romance. 

When  a  lazy  heron  flapped  unseeing  upstream,  Robert 
touched  her  shoulder.  "  Look."  She  looked,  smiled  at 
him,  closed  her  eyes  again,  and  drooped  deeper  in  the 
cushions.     How  cold  all  stories  seemed  beside  this  drift- 


78  OUR  HOUSE 

ing  on  together!  And  then,  very  suddenly,  he  realized 
that  he  was  making  many  difficulties  out  of  life,  when  all 
he  really  wanted  was  to  kiss  her.  With  trembling  hands 
he  steered  the  canoe  toward  the  shadows  of  the  bank  and 
rested  his  paddle  on  the  gunwale.  She  did  not  stir.  Cold 
and  warning  voices  called  to  him  from  the  back  of  his 
brain.  He  did  not  heed  them.  This  was  the  great  ad- 
venture. So  dreamy  was  the  dappled  sunlight  through 
which  they  floated  with  imperceptible  motion  that  he  could 
pause  to  consider  how  childish,  how  trivial  was  the  rest  of 
the  world  beside  this  palpitating  moment.  He  wondered 
at  its  stupid  preoccupation  with  money,  with  "  getting  on," 
when  there  was  this.  He  wondered  at  his  eagerness  a  mo- 
ment ago  to  lay  bare  his  vague  ambitions.  And  still  he  did 
not  kiss  her.  Modesty,  respect,  some  powerful  inhibition 
held  him  back.  Instead  he  let  his  hand  gently  touch  her 
shoulder.  She  did  not  stir.  But  the  warmth  of  her 
thrilled  through  his  fingers  and  into  his  brain.  The  sun- 
light whirled  before  him.  A  delicious  shiver  rose  to  a 
mad  excitement  that  made  him  tremble.  He  grasped  her 
shoulder,  bent  quickly,  and  kissed  her  lips. 

The  canoe  swayed  dangerously,  but  she  did  not  move; 
she  did  not  even  open  her  eyes.  With  a  kind  of  awe  he 
watched  her  cheeks,  her  forehead,  burn.  "  Are  you  angry, 
Kath  ?  "  he  babbled  and  awkwardly  caressed  her. 

At  the  words  and  the  touch  she  whipped  from  her  pil- 
lows, and  faced  him  quivering.  "  What  have  you  done, 
Eobert  Roberts  ?  "  she  whispered  tensely.  "  We've  always 
hated  this  sort  of  thing.  Don't  you  remember,  the  straw- 
ride!" 

He  remembered,  the  moonlight  night  in  the  South  when 
he  had  first  met  her  after  childhood;  the  straw-ride  over 
the  hills,  the  singing,  the  kissing,  half  to  tease,  half  in 


PASTORALE  79 

earnest.  He  remembered  how  her  wild  little  figure,  so 
quick,  so  free,  so  light  of  heart,  had  fascinated  him,  the 
soft  Southern  tongue  she  had  learned  since  she  had  left 
Millingtown  had  taken  his  ear  captive,  her  impudence  had 
piqued  him.  Some  one  had  dared  him  to  kiss  Katherine 
Gray.  He  had  caught  her  in  the  black  shadow  of  a  forest 
tunnel, —  on  the  chin,  wasn't  it?  And  then,  smack,  she 
had  boxed  his  ears  with  a  ring  that  made  the  straw-ride 
shout  with  laughter.  At  first  he  was  angry.  But  soon  he 
began  to  like  her  the  better  for  her  independence ;  sought 
her  out  to  apologize ;  and  they  had  sat  together  all  the  ride 
home  through  the  great  woods,  talking  of  friendship,  but 
knowing  that  they  meant  purity  and  respect  between  a  girl 
and  a  man,  and  disgust  for  people  who  hugged  and  kissed 
when  they  were  not  in  love. 

"  Of  course  I  remember,"  he  cried  hotly.  u  Of  course ; 
—  but  it's  not  the  same  now.  It's  different."  It  was  dif- 
ferent. The  beat  of  his  heart,  the  giddy  ecstasy  in  his 
blood,  the  vivid  delight  of  his  touch  on  her  wrist  meant  that 
some  new  wonder  had  come  into  their  relationship.  He 
did  not  stop  to  analyze.  How  could  he  with  this  thrill 
vibrating,  pulsing  through  him;  with  her  frightened  eyes 
looking  into  his,  and  around  them  the  warm  golden  stillness 
of  September  ?  He  grasped  her  arm  and  squeezed  it  tight. 
"  It  makes  you  thrill,  too,"  he  cried  triumphantly.  "  You 
feel  it.  Oh,  Kath,  dear,  why  shouldn't  I  kiss  you  ?  Don't 
you  see  that  I'm  not  fooling  ?  Don't  you  see  that  when  I 
touch  you,  I  can't  think  or  feel  anything  else?  I  want 
you,  Kath !  " 

The  fear  and  the  anger  slowly  died  in  Katherine's  eyes ; 
he  could  feel  her  tense  muscles  relax ;  she  sank  back  into  the 
pillows.  He  hung  over  her  burning,  expectant,  intent  on 
winning  only.     And  then  like  some  wild  thing  weary  of 


80  OUR  HOUSE 

struggle,  she  drooped  back  into  his  arms,  drew  down  his 
face  with  a  quick  movement  to  kiss  it  gently,  and  with  an 
arm  about  his  neck  let  her  head  sink  upon  his  breast.  "  I 
wanted  to  kiss  you,"  she  said  simply. 

They  had  drifted  into  a  shadowed  backwater  where  a 
sycamore  bending  languidly  toward  its  beloved  river  shut 
out  all  but  thrice-sifted  light,  lucent  with  greens  and 
browns.  A  dabbling  branch  caught  and  held  them  with  its 
soft,  glove-like  fronds,  swinging  the  canoe  until  Katherine's 
warm  face  was  framed  in  amorous  leaves  like  a  madonna 
of  Bellini.  He  grounded  his  paddle  so  that  they  might 
stay  in  this  intimacy  of  shadow. 

At  the  confident  touch  of  her  lips  the  burning  passion 
had  fled.  The  pride  of  holding  her,  trustful,  self-abandon- 
ing began  to  arouse  new  and  deeper  emotions  —  reverence, 
affection,  and  fright.  "  Of  course  this  means  — "  he  hesi- 
tated — "  I  love  you."  The  tawdry  phrase,  so  hard  to  say 
without  seeming  sentimental,  and  yet  so  fine  in  its  simplic- 
ity, awakened  an  old  vision  that  was  deeper  than  kissing 
and  deeper  than  romance, —  a  vision  of  some  final  happi- 
ness that  should  be  part  of  all  his  aspirations  and  all  his 
plodding  everydays.  Eobert  began  to  see  why  Joe  Ran- 
kin's maturity  had  shaken  him  so.  He  was  too  old  to  play 
the  faun.  Love  meant  marriage.  This  too  sudden 
adventure  had  plunged  him  into  the  future.  He  shiv- 
ered. 

Katherine  was  waiting  intently,  too  intently.  Her  eyes 
sought  his  in  the  silence  that  followed  "  I  love  you,"  and 
held  them,  defying  evasion.  Then  suddenly  she  flung  his 
arm  from  her  shoulder.  "  You  don't  really  love  me  —  yet, 
Robbie,"  she  murmured,  and  slipped  from  his  grasp. 

He  struck  out  manfully  in  defense.  "  Don't  say  that. 
Come  back.  I  was  only  thinking  that  I  had  been  too  sud- 
den," he  improvised,  striking  by  accident  upon  the  truth. 


PASTOKALE  81 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  more  about  my  thoughts,  my  working 
side  before  you  answer  me.  We've  never  just  talked, 
Kath." 

But  Katherine  huddled  away  from  him,  speaking  with 
the  soft  Southern  slur  that  always  came  when  she  was 
moved.  "  We-all  don't  love  each  other  with  our  minds, 
Kobert  Roberts.  We  don't  care  about  each  other's  minds." 
Eobert  could  see  her  fingers  clench  as  upon  a  force  con- 
trolled. Was  the  craving  for  touch  and  intimate  word, 
the  magnetism  of  one  for  the  other,  burning  her  too? 
Could  there  be  this  without  love  ?  The  thought  confused 
him.  Then,  "  Oh,  Robbie,  Robbie,  what  ought  we  to  do  ?  " 
she  cried,  and  burst  into  hysterical  tears. 

Her  weeping  gave  him  the  most  curious  sensation  he 
had  ever  experienced.  It  was  as  if  some  hand  was  reach- 
ing down  to  twist  his  heart.  "  Don't !  "  he  murmured  in 
vehement  pain;  and  even  shook  her.  Another  sob,  it 
seemed,  would  be  more  than  he  could  stand.  And  the  pity 
of  it !  A  wave  of  self-reproach  drowned  thought.  "  Look 
at  me,  look  at  me,  Kath,"  he  cried,  knowing  that  his  own 
eyes  were  wet. 

She  stopped  crying  pluckily,  and  after  an  instant  man- 
aged a  smile.  "  I  never  cried  at  you  before,  Robbie,  did  I ! 
Oh,  it'll  be  all  the  same  in  twenty  years." 

"  It  won't,"  he  said  firmly ;  "  not  if  I  can  help  it." 

Her  courage  beat  down  his  egoism,  humbled  him.  And 
then  the  canoe  swung  loose  from  its  nest  of  branches  and 
out  into  the  gold  sunlight.  Bronze  lights  were  in  her  hair, 
shell-pink  in  her  cheeks,  her  lips  were  trembling.  He  grew 
dizzy  again.  "  If  you  don't  trust  me,  dear, — "  so  he 
worded  it  with  half-conscious  duplicity, — "  why  can't  we 
experiment  ?  Isn't  that  what  an  engagement  is  for  ?  If 
I  don't  make  you  happy,  why  you  can  send  me  back  to  the 
shop.     Anyway,  I  love  you." 


82  OUR  HOUSE 

It  was  easy  to  say  this  time  for  he  wanted  so  much  to 
hold  her  in  his  arms  again;  and  then  the  knowledge  that 
she  too  was  doubtful  made  a  difference  somehow.  They 
would  enter  the  great  adventure  as  companions,  side  by 
side.  "  Is  it  an  engagement  —  until  we  know  \  "  He 
trembled  with  the  intensity  of  his  question.  "  Won't  you 
—  come  back  ?  " 

Katherine  seemed  to  be  thinking,  questioning ;  —  then 
she  came  —  gently,  hesitantly.  "  You're  a  dear  boy, 
anyhow,"  she  whispered;  and  with  a  sigh  half  of  doubt, 
half  content,  let  her  head  rest  again  upon  his  breast. 

Suddenly  the  West  Chester  whistles,  mellow  in  the  dis- 
tance, began  their  faint  noon-time  chorus.  "  Goodness 
gracious !  "  she  cried.  "  We're  sitting  on  the  lunch !  " 
And  so  they  came  back  from  high  romance  to  the  need  of  a 
fire,  and  food,  and  the  practical  question  of  how  to  get  back 
to  Millingtown  by  six,  with  ten  miles  of  river  still  before 
them. 

All  afternoon  they  hurried  southward  through  an  en- 
chanted September;  slipping  over  merry  rapids  between 
banks  of  late  flowers,  paddling  down  quiet  reaches  beneath 
the  hills  of  lower  Brandywine.  They  did  not  talk  much ; 
he  did  not  touch  her,  lest  passion  should  come  back.  Now 
and  then  as  she  waved  toward  a  rock  rising  dimly  through 
the  current,  or  a  sandpiper  bobbing  at  them  from  the  bank, 
she  let  her  hand  rest  gently  for  a  moment  on  his  knee.  u  I 
like  being  engaged,"  he  said  quietly  as  they  landed  at  the 
last  dam.  And  again,  when  they  were  walking  over  the 
twilit  hills  to  Millingtown,  "  you  meant  '  yes,'  you  know." 
But  Kath  kept  her  eyes  her  own,  pensive,  mysterious. 
Her  profile  was  like  one  of  Leonardo's  women,  as  he  tried 
to  catch  its  expression,  there  on  the  hilltop  against  the  flush 
of  evening.  Only  when  they  had  passed  through  the  town, 
and  were  hidden  from  the  low  moonlight  in  the  deep 


PASTOKALE  83 

shadow  of  the  boxwood  tunnel  before  the  Taggerts',  where 
she  was  to  spend  the  night,  did  her  reserve  give  way. 
Then  unexpectedly  she  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and 
hugged  him  tight.  "  It's  the  last  time  until  we  know/' 
she  whispered  fiercely.     "  At  least  we've  had  to-day." 

"  Know !  " —  he  repeated  it  scornfully  as  he  strode  home 
on  moonlight  across  the  spaces  of  the  garden.  What  else 
was  worth  knowing!  The  moonlight  glowed  upon  late 
roses.  If  only  he  could  say,  or  sing,  or  shout  what  he  felt. 
Was  it  the  grape  arbor  where  Miss  Sharpe  sat  at  her  work 
in  the  afternoons  that  suggested  Browning  ?  At  all  events 
Browning  brought  him  relief. 

"  Oh  heart !  oh  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that  burns !  " 

he  murmured,  welcoming  the  tense  throb  of  the  words ; — ■ 

"  Earth's  returns 
For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and  sin! 

Shut  them  in, 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest! 

Love  is  best." 

"  Love  is  best."  It  seemed  to  answer  everything  —  if 
this  was  love. 

The  windows  of  our  house  were  brightly  lighted.  Shad- 
ows passed  hurriedly  behind  the  curtains.  "  If  this  was 
love  ?  "  His  brain  asked  the  question ;  his  heart  warmed 
the  answer.  The  day  glowed  in  memory  with  a  kind  of 
sanctity.  Her  hand  still  touched  his  knee;  he  could  trace 
her  profile  against  the  night ;  he  heard  her  voice ;  and  felt 
the  burning  tenderness  of  her  lips. 

From  the  shadows  that  hid  the  side  door,  a  figure  started 
forward  and  caught  his  arm.  It  was  Cousin  Jenny.  Her 
hands  as  they  touched  his  were  trembling.  "  Go  upstairs 
—  quick !  "  she  whispered.  "  Thy  father, — "  a  sob  choked 
her.     "  Oh,  Kobert  dear,  where,  where  hast  thee  been !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CBISIS* 

HE  ran  up  the  dark  back  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time ;  but 
in  the  long  hall  that  led  to  his  father's  room,  he  hesi- 
tated. Everything  was  so  utterly  familiar;  a  pile  of 
mending  heaped  on  the  table ;  the  cat  asleep  beside  it ;  the 
book  he  had  been  reading  last  night  lying  open  where  he 
had  left  it  as  he  hurried  downstairs  in  the  morning.  For 
an  instant  he  could  not  make  himself  step  from  this  peace 
into  the  unbelievable  sorrow  waiting  beyond  the  further 
door,  from  behind  which  came  hushed  voices  and  quick 
footsteps.  The  day  had  exhausted  him  emotionally. 
Time  stood  still  in  this  dim  hallway.  He  lingered,  faint- 
hearted, reluctant  to  turn  the  knob  and  be  swept  on  to  new 
intensities.  Then  a  gust  of  poignant  grief  shamed  him; 
he  bit  his  lips,  and  opened  the  door. 

The  shaded  lights,  the  nurse  flitting  out  of  his  way,  the 
doctor  busy  over  the  wash-stand  in  the  corner,  were  merely 
a  background  for  his  mother's  tear-stained  face  bent  over 
a  restless  figure  that  drew  its  breath  in  long,  whistling  sobs. 
He  caught  her  arm  and  pressed  it,  without  looking  at  her 
face.  The  one  thing  of  supreme  importance  seemed  to  be 
that  he  should  not  break  down,  should  not  give  way  to  his 
tears. 

At  last  he  dared  to  look  at  his  father's  face.  It  was 
waxen,  ghastly,  preternaturally  long,  now  that  the  high 
cheek  bones  were  no  longer  pink  above  his  beard.  But  it 
was  the  expression  that  sent  a  sudden  wave  of  shocked 
surprise  through  him,  succeeded  by  a  pity  that  was  almost 

84 


CKISIS  85 

too  painful  to  endure.  He  expected  suffering ;  —  he  was 
not  prepared  for  utter,  hopeless,  dogged  despair.  At  first 
he  did  not  understand.  Was  it  fear  of  death  ?  Was  it  the 
grief  of  parting  ?  No,  it  was  something  more  hitter,  and 
more  sullen.  Mutely  he  questioned  his  mother's  eyes ;  hut 
she  only  kissed  him,  then  swiftly  bent  again  over  the  bed. 
"  He  wants  to  speak,  Kobert,"  she  whispered.  "  Oh, 
watch !  watch !  " 

Some  one  whispered,  "  Heart  trouble.  A  collapse." 
He  scarcely  noticed  the  source,  so  little  was  he  conscious  of 
any  personalities  but  his  mother's  and  the  strained  and 
hopeless  glimmer  of  life  in  his  father's  face.  But  when 
the  old  color  began  to  come  back  to  the  cheeks,  and  the 
breathing  grew  easier,  he  knew  that  a  hypodermic  was 
working,  and  understood  the  terms  by  which  the  heart  was 
kept  a  little  longer  at  its  task. 

a  Is  thee  easier,  dear  ? "  he  heard  his  mother  say,  and 
saw  that  his  father's  eyes  had  opened.  They  were  vague 
and  weary.  The  voice,  when  it  came,  was  so  dull,  so  emo- 
tionless, that  Kobert  glanced  quickly  at  the  nurse  to  ask  if 
this  were  delirium. 

"  Can't  the  doctor  do  something  I  "  his  father  said ;  and 
when  no  one  answered,  "  I'm  not  old  —  yet.  Can't  he  do 
something  ?  "  Mrs.  Roberts  touched  his  forehead  gently. 
"  Yes,  dear,"  she  whispered  softly,  biting  back  the  tears. 
But  Robert  looked  at  the  doctor  and  saw  that  there  was  no 
hope. 

His  father's  voice  rose  into  irritated  anger.  "Make 
him  do  something,  Sarah.  It's  not  fair."  Some  perplex- 
ity seemed  to  be  forcing  its  way  out  through  his  trembling 
lips.  "  I'm  a  young  man."  And  then  with  an  anxiety 
that  made  Robert  groan,  u  I  can't  afford  to  be  knocked 
out  now.     It's  —  wrong."     His  breath  failed  him. 

Robert  shivered  in  agony.     Oh,  he  mustn't  die  this  way ! 


86  OUR  HOUSE 

It  was  terrible  beyond  anything  he  had  ever  imagined,  this 
reluctant,  hurried  descent  into  death.  "  Father,"  he  cried, 
and  flung  himself  on  his  knees  by  the  bed.  "  Look  at 
mother.  Speak  to  her.  The  end's  coming.  There  isn't 
anything  more  we  can  do." 

And  then  suddenly,  as  he  knelt  there,  the  boy  realized, 
with  a  pang  of  mortal  fear,  the  meaning  of  his  father's 
tragedy.  Incident  after  incident,  word  after  word  back 
through  the  years,  flashed  into  his  mind,  and  joined  to 
explain  the  pitiful  sorrow  of  this  crisis.  It  had  always 
been  expectancy  with  his  father;  all  his  plans  pointed 
ahead;  in  his  furtive  wray  he  had  always  seen  next  year 
waiting,  when  he  could  sit  down  and  rest,  and  be  "  better 
off  "  at  last.  That  was  what  the  vague  hope  meant  in 
those  shy  eyes  that  always  seemed  to  look  over  the  boy's 
head  and  into  the  future.  And  now,  in  the  midst  of  every- 
thing he  was  caught ;  —  caught  before  he  could  settle 
down  and  unbend  and  be  friendly  with  the  rest  of  them ; 
—  caught  with  financial  danger  weighing  him  down. 
Caught !  —  he  had  been  driven  into  a  trap !  A  fire  of 
rebellion  burned  in  Eobert  against  the  inexorable  cruelty 
of  this  taking-off.  He  accused  God.  He  sobbed  over  the 
long,  faded  hand  beside  him. 

A  vague  movement  of  the  hand  recalled  him.  The 
dullness  had  lifted  from  his  father's  eyes.  "  Thee  here, 
dear"; — he  was  speaking  to  mother,  with  the  old  inti- 
macy that  lifted  his  husky  voice  into  a  note  of  affection. 
Robert's  heart  lightened.  There  was  something  after  all 
to  sweeten  the  cup;  for  they  had  had  each  other.  Then 
the  eyes  found  his;  the  mouth  faintly  smiled  the  embar- 
rassed smile  that  Robert  knew  so  well.  "  I  had  to  make 
thy  mother  comfortable,  Rob.  It's  a  hard  time  for  me 
to  be  sick.  Next  year  — "  His  eyes  closed ;  his  breath- 
ing grew  laborious.     "  Oh,  God,  let  him  die,"  prayed  Rob- 


CEISIS  87 

ert.  Then  the  struggle  lessened;  the  weary  breast  rose 
and  fell  with  almost  imperceptible  motion ;  the  face  grew 
peaceful;  the  head  turned  and  sought  the  pillow;  the  lips 
moved  gently,  paled,  and  were  still. 

The  nurse  felt  the  lax  wrist,  then  spoke  one  word  softly. 
His  mother  caught  the  hand  to  her  breast  in  a  passion  of 
weeping.  He  felt  a  touch  upon  his  shoulder,  and  knew 
that  this  peace  was  death. 

When  he  came  downstairs  half  an  hour  later,  he  found 
all  the  cousins  in  the  living-room.  The  women  were  sob- 
bing unrestrainedly,  the  men  blinking  hard  or  staring  at 
the  windows.  When  he  entered  there  was  a  quick  silence, 
then  first  one  and  then  another  came  forward  to  squeeze 
his  hand  without  meeting  his  eyes,  ne  had  never  loved 
them  so  much.  They  were  his  father's  people.  He  hated 
himself  for  despising  their  narrowness,  their  lack  of  vision. 
"  Leave  all  the  —  the  arrangements  to  me,"  Cousin  Jim 
whispered,  patting  him  affectionately.  It  was  the  first 
time  Eobert  had  ever  heard  him  speak  without  a  bad  joke. 
Even  Cousin  Tom,  who  had  treated  him  as  if  he  were  a 
spoiled  child  from  his  babyhood  up,  wrung  his  hand  with 
pathetic  intimacy :  "  We  always  did  our  business  to- 
gether. If  anything  goes  wrong,  you  come  talk  to  me,"  he 
murmured,  without  a  trace  of  his  usual  ironic  distrust. 
But  the  women  did  Robert  the  most  good,  as  when  the 
evening  lengthened  they  began  to  talk  of  old  sorrows  in 
the  house,  and  old  happinesses,  drawing  close  to  each  other 
in  the  bonds  of  long  intimacy  and  the  family  sorrow. 
At  intervals,  one  or  the  other  of  them  would  tiptoe  upstairs 
to  consult  with  Cousin  Jenny,  who  was  with  his  mother, 
trying  to  make  her  relax,  or  sleep.  Eobert  would  have  kept 
them  there  indefinitely.  They  satisfied  his  craving  for  a 
background  of  love  to  this  tragedy.     If  he  could  think 


88  OUR  HOUSE 

of  his  father  dead  above  there,  but  among  friends,  the 
bitterness  lessened.  He  held  them  when  they  prepared 
to  go ;  he  made  Cousin  Mattie  come  upstairs  with  him  while 
he  kissed  the  limp,  exhausted  face  of  his  mother,  too 
weary,  too  hopeless  to  respond.  He  would  have  talked 
over  all  the  details  of  the  funeral  with  Cousin  Jim,  but 
that  gentleman's  conventions  took  fright  at  the  thought. 
"  Not  a  word !  Not  a  word !  Leave  it  all  to  me !  "  he 
cried,  shaking  his  bald  little  head,  and  scurried  off  after 
the  others,  waving  a  protesting  hand,  and  leaving  Robert 
alone  in  the  broad,  dim-lit  hall  beneath  the  pictures  of 
his  grandfathers, —  cold,  stiff  presentments  of  what  once 
had  been  personality  and  life.  There  he  listened  to  the 
tick-tock  of  the  high  clock,  measuring  out  the  silence  end- 
lessly, tried  to  realize  all  that  had  happened,  and  felt  only 
dull,  weary,  and  above  all,  infinitely  depressed. 

Remembering  that  he  had  had  no  dinner,  he  made  his 
way  into  the  pantry,  found  bread  and  milk  and  cake,  ate 
what  he  could,  and  then  smoked.  The  clock  ticked  end- 
lessly. When  would  feeling  come  back!  Suddenly  he 
felt  its  faint  stirrings  of  pain.  "  Make  it  grief,  O  God !  " 
he  prayed,  and  tried  to  think  of  that  calm  ending,  of  his 
father's  face  with  its  shy,  embarrassed  smile, —  of  his 
mother's  cry  at  the  parting,  of  her  loneliness  now.  Tears 
came  to  his  eyes ;  but  beneath,  the  bitterness  of  his  father's 
defeat  welled  up  and  up.  To  labor  all  his  life  to  make 
them  comfortable,  and  to  give  him  his  education;  to  be 
upright,  never  to  fail  for  an  instant  in  affection, —  and 
then  to  die  this  way,  depressed,  unwilling,  hopeless!  To 
Robert  Roberts,  who  had  believed  in  the  essential  cheer- 
fulness of  things,  such  a  consummation  seemed  to  turn 
bitter  all  the  happiness  that  had  gone  before. 

He  turned  swiftly  and  tiptoed  up  the  stairs,  held  his 
breath  down  the  hallway,  and  with  a  shudder  opened  the 


CEISIS  89 

door  where  his  father  was  lying.  A  shaded  light  burned 
above  the  bed.  How  tall  his  father  had  been ;  how  gaunt 
his  face  now  that  the  luminous  eyes  were  closed,  and  the 
rose  flush  no  longer  burned  in  his  cheeks.  Oh,  the  cruelty 
of  it,  so  to  hasten  death, —  to  numb  the  faculties  so  that 
you  could  not  say  good-by,  could  not  tell  your  father  that 
you  loved  him !  Every  reticence,  every  foolish  pride  that 
had  kept  him  from  showing  his  affection,  hurt  and  stung 
in  Robert  Roberts.  He  murmured  his  passionate  regrets 
above  the  peaceful  face;  then  stole  back  down  the  stair- 
way, and  out  into  the  velvety  September  night. 

First  he  strode  up  the  park  drive  beside  the  tumultuous 
river,  following  the  lane  of  starlight  between  the  tree-tops, 
and  trying  to  deaden  his  thoughts  in  motion.  In  vain. 
His  feet  pursued  the  familiar  pathway  and  left  his  brain 
clear  to  torture  itself  with  the  events  of  the  night.  De- 
tails came  crowding  from  his  sub-consciousness,  clamor- 
ous, insistent:  his  father's  thin  hand  clenched  in  dogged 
unwillingness;  the  doctor's  alien  sympathy;  the  slow  col- 
lapse of  death ;  —  bursting  from  the  road  he  forced  his 
way  into  the  bushes  of  the  hill  slope,  and  with  lowered 
head  and  groping  hands  struggled  into  the  heart  of  the 
woods.  The  night  was  vocal  with  crickets  and  katydids, 
but  in  his  glade  the  darkness  swathed  him  like  a  coverlet, 
and  it  was  quiet.  Leaves  touched  his  hot  forehead  and 
caressed  his  cheek.  Beside  him,  a  smooth  trunk  rose  up- 
ward to  the  stars,  and  made  a  resting-place  for  his  trem- 
bling hand.  He  tried  to  forget  time  and  space,  freeing 
his  soul  as  when,  a  boy,  he  had  run  from  teasing  comrades 
to  the  shelter  of  the  spice-wood  thickets  and  let  his  spirit 
wander  away  from  memory  in  the  leaf-woven  sanctuary 
of  the  forest.  The  painful  visions  grew  dim  upon  his  eye- 
lids; his  vivid  pain  sank  to  a  dull  ache.  A  little  hollow 
full  of  dead  leaves  received  his  tired  body.  He  curled 
up  like  a  weary  dog,  and  slept. 


CHAPTER  IX 


AWAKENING 


THE  strident  call  of  a  robin  awoke  him  when  the  earli- 
est dawn  was  beginning  to  make  darkness  visible; 
but  unlike  the  awakenings  after  grief's  sleep  of  which  he 
had  read,  there  was  no  new  world  in  view.  A  moment's 
blankness,  and  then  his  mind's  clutch  slid  in  again  where 
it  had  gripped  the  night  before.  And  yet,  as  he  rose 
and  stretched,  brushing  off  the  dead  leaves,  and  straining 
his  eyes  through  the  gray  darkness,  he  felt  that  the  night 
had  brought  some  alteration.  The  struggle  to  exchange 
bitterness  for  grief  seemed  to  be  over.  A  tender  thought 
of  his  father,  a  passionate  sympathy  for  his  mother,  lying 
awake  now  and  sobbing  perhaps  in  her  lonely  bed,  brought 
the  relief  of  sorrow.  But  deep  in  his  mind,  like  a  cold  and 
heavy  ice-block,  lay  the  new  knowledge  that  life  in  its 
reality  could  be  cruel  and  remorseless, —  even  in  "  our 
house."  It  had  crushed  his  father;  it  might  crush  him. 
Something  of  optimism,  some  belief  in  the  beneficence  of 
the  providence  that  watched  over  the  family,  had  van- 
ished from  his  heart  forever. 

With  unsealed  eyes,  he  saw  the  rules  of  the  game.  If 
you  wanted  to  live  and  be  satisfied  with  living  before 
death  got  you,  you  must  choose  your  path  and  stick  to  it. 
The  wrong  path  was  never  miraculously  straightened. 
Time  did  not  wait  upon  procrastination,  nor  favor  the 
short-sighted.  His  father  —  he  ran  through  it  again  — 
had  lived  as  if  life  lasted  forever.  And  then  when  he  had 
snarled  the  skein  in  his  haste  to  untangle  it,  when  life 

90 


AWAKENING  91 

and  time  were  most  desirable,  death  gripped  him.  The 
dark  cloud  of  financial  danger  must  now  inevitably  break ; 
but  of  that  as  yet  he  took  little  heed.  His  own  father 
—  Kobert's  young  heart  shivered  as  he  phrased  it  finally 
before  he  should  take  up  the  facts  of  life  again  —  had 
died  unhappy,  unreconciled  to  death. 

As  he  walked  back  through  the  gray  and  misty  chill  of 
growing  light,  a  sense  of  the  unfriendliness  of  the  universe 
made  him  crave  the  comfort  of  love.  Always  before  he 
had  trusted  life.  Now  he  feared  it,  and  longed  for  a  hand- 
clasp, a  smile,  a  kiss  —  some  island  of  consolation  in  this 
river  of  doubt  that  was  sweeping  them  all  onward  toward  a 
logical  fate.  If  he  could  feel  Bill's  hand  on  his  shoulder ! 
And  there  was  Katherine !  His  heart  leaped ;  then  turned 
cold.     He  hurried  toward  the  gardens  of  the  square. 

The  air  transfused  with  faintest  lilac,  the  sky  warmed 
to  aquamarine  and  shimmered  toward  the  east,  the  leaves 
of  the  maples  along  the  sidewalk  stood  out  each  clear  and 
dark  against  the  flooding  light.  It  was  to  be  another 
golden  day,  a  day  made  for  vivid  life  or  love ;  and  in  his 
veins  the  blood  ran  sluggishly,  breathe  deep  as  he  would 
of  the  fresh  air  welling  up  from  the  river  he  could  not 
stir  the  leaden  woe  about  his  heart. 

Above  the  rooftops  he  saw  the  oak-dome  that  covered 
"  our  house  " ;  then  turned  sharp,  into  the  brick  walk  that 
led  to  the  Taggerts'  garden.  A  roaming  cat,  lank,  evil,  with 
ruffled,  sodden  fur,  glared  at  him  from  dull  and  hateful 
eyes.  It  limped  away,  to  die  perhaps  behind  the  hedges. 
Shuddering,  cold,  he  leaned  wearily  against  the  house, 
watching  the  cold  blue  trees  turn  gold,  the  grass  begin  to 
sparkle.  Then,  when  the  sun  had  warmed  him,  he  swung 
himself  into  the  first  crotch  of  the  great  wistaria  that  led 
up  to  the  porch  by  Katherine's  window. 

But  no  sooner  had  he  whistled  "  pee-wee,"  than  he  chid 


92  OUR  HOUSE 

himself  for  his  weakness.  This  was  no  time  to  talk ;  nor 
did  he  wish  to  lay  bare  his  sorrow.  It  was  too  late  to 
retreat.  He  heard  the  patter  of  feet  above ;  the  scrape  of 
the  porch  door;  saw  her  face  strangely  pale  and  serious 
above  him.  "  Wait,"  she  commanded, —  was  gone  for 
a  long  five  minutes  while  his  mind  stood  still ;  then,  "  Here 
I  am.  Come  up.  Quick !  "  He  climbed  heavily,  know- 
ing the  risk  of  scandal  if  some  one  should  see  him  at  this 
hour,  but  with  neither  will  nor  power  to  turn  back,  strad- 
dled the  railing,  and  stepped  behind  the  screen  of  vines. 
She  was  dressed  in  morning  dimity,  but  with  signs  of 
haste;  and  her  lovely,  shimmering  hair  was  piled  in  con- 
fusion. "  Oh,  poor,  poor  boy,"  she  murmured,  and  drop- 
ping upon  the  porch  seat,  took  his  hand  and  held  it  to  her 
breast. 

If  he  pulled  his  hand  away  testily,  it  was  nerves, 
he  thought,  that  made  him  do  so.  Comfort,  now  that  he 
had  asked  for  it,  he  did  not  seem  to  be  able  to  stand. 
"  I'm  crazy  to  have  come  here,  Kath,"  he  muttered. 

She  looked  at  him  mutely,  trying  to  understand.  Tears 
surged  up  to  his  eyes.  He  fought  them  down.  That 
shame  he  would  not  permit.  But  he  knew  that  she  saw 
them.  "  It  isn't  just  father's  death,"  he  blurted,  to  stifle 
sobs  that  were  fighting  for  relief.  "  It's  the  way  he  died. 
Oh,  Kath,  he  was  just  pulled  under  like  a  drowning  man." 

Her  eyes  rounded  with  horror.     "  He  didn't  suffer !  " 

"  No,  no  —  you  don't  understand  —  you  can't.  What's 
a  little  pain  at  death !  It  wasn't  that.  It  was  the  ruth- 
lessness  of  it  all.  He's  been  killing  himself  all  these 
months  over  money  matters,  and  never  guessing  it.  Never 
dreaming  he  wouldn't  have  time  to  catch  up."  The  boy's 
face  was  pinched  with  intensity  of  feeling.  "  It's  just  like 
mathematics,  life  is.  You  add  x  to  y  and  they  always 
equal  z.     Nothing  can  stop  them.     I  never  knew  it  was 


AWAKENING  93 

so  remorseless, —  like  that.  It's  knocked  the  —  the  soft- 
ness out  of  me,  Kath." 

Suddenly  he  knew  why  he  had  come  to  her  porch  so 
early  in  the  morning,  and  dropped  his  eyes  lest  she  should 
discover.     He  must  never  tell  her !  —  unless  she  guessed. 

And  so  they  sat  in  silence  for  a  full  minute,  her  hand  on 
his  knee.  He  noticed  with  no  surprise  that  its  touch  did 
not  warm  him.  And  yet  he  intensely  wanted  to  place 
his  own  within  it,  as  a  friend's  hand  in  a  friend's. 

"  No,  I  don't  understand,"  she  said  painfully.  "  I  can 
only  think  of  your  father's  goodness,  and  how  he  just 
idolized  your  mother."  She  hesitated,  puckered  her  fore- 
head in  thought,  paled;  then  suddenly  flung  round  upon 
him.  "  Look  at  me,  Robert  Roberts,  look  at  me !  —  Oh, 
you  silly !  You  baby !  To  think  I  wouldn't  understand 
that!  Why  we  were  just  children  yesterday!  It  was  the 
sunlight,  and  the  freedom,  and  my  crying  I  guess."  She 
flushed  a  little,  and  her  voice  dropped.  "  I  don't  believe 
just  wanting  some  one  means  much  —  by  itself." 

His  relief  was  so  great  as  to  frighten  him.  He  tried 
to  put  bounds  upon  it.  "  Do  you  mean  you  don't  love 
me,  Kath  ? "  The  instant  he  spoke  he  was  ashamed  of 
himself.  "  No,  no,"  he  cried  hurriedly.  "  I  haven't  the 
right  to  ask  you  that.  Let  me  tell  you  what's  happened 
to  me,  and  then  say  what  you  please.  This  night  has  just 
swept  me  away.  I  can't  touch  bottom  any  more.  I  don't 
know  what  I  think  or  what  I  feel,  except  that  life  isn't 
what  I  believed.  I'm  afraid  to  trust  my  impulses.  When 
I  think  of  you  and  me  together,  I  can't  see  ahead."  He 
forced  himself  into  complete  honesty.  "  There's  a  part  of 
me  doesn't  come  into  this  —  this  affair  of  ours  at  all,  Kath. 
I  didn't  know  how  big  a  part  till  to-night.  I  thought  it 
would  come  round  with  the  rest.  Now  that  I  see  how 
people  are  punished  for  mistakes  they  make,  I'm  afraid. 


94  OUR  HOUSE 

I'm  afraid  for  both  of  us.  And  the  —  the  passion  I  felt 
is  gone.  That's  from  the  jolt  I've  had,  I  suppose ;  but  it 
frightens  me  too."  He  looked  at  her  lowered  eyes  and 
flinched.  "  I'm  a  horrible  egoist,  and  maybe  a  cad ;  but 
I  can't  lie  after  last  night." 

"All  through?" 

"  Yes,"  he  groaned  in  misery.  She  whirled  on  the  seat, 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  and  caught  both  his  hands 
affectionately.  "  I  let  you  talk,  because  I  thought  it'd  do 
you  good  to  be  honest.  Now,  we  can  be  friends."  She 
smiled  with  a  sympathy  that  seemed  divine. 

"  But  you  aren't  —  hurt  ?  "  A  fearful  memory  of  Viola 
nobly  hiding  her  love  while  a  canker  ate  her  heart,  racked 
him. 

"  Conceited  boy !  "  she  laughed  at  him ;  then  sobered 
instantly.  "  I'll  be  honest  too.  Sometimes  I  think  I'm 
in  love  with  you.  Others,  there  seems  to  be  — "  she  made 
a  little  gesture  as  if  to  bring  down  the  words  — "  more  of 
you  than  I  want.  I  almost  hate  you,  Robert  Roberts,  when 
you  talk  like, —  well,  Miss  Sharpe."  She  clenched  both 
fists  on  her  knees.  "  I  wouldn't,  wouldn't,  wouldn't  live 
with  a  man  I  didn't  understand.  And  I  don't  half  under- 
stand you,  Robbie.  But  I'm  just  crazy  to  be  —  your 
friend!" 

"  Shake  hands  then,"  he  said ;  and  they  looked  each  other 
in  the  eyes,  gripped  hands,  and  sealed  it.  "  If  I  get  low 
again,  I'm  coming  back." 

She  watched  him  across  the  gardens,  striding  confi- 
dently, willing  to  meet  the  hard  things  at  home.  His  slen- 
der, stern-set  figure  in  the  sunlight  touched  her  to  a  fervor 
of  pity  and  admiration.  A  girl  was  lucky  to  have  such  a 
friend.     And  yet,  she  sobbed  a  little. 


CHAPTER  X 

RELEASE 

ONCE  home,  Robert  Roberts  crept  through  the  sleeping 
house  to  the  bath-room,  stripped,  pluuged  into  cold 
water,  rubbed  down,  clad  himself  afresh,  and  came  down 
stairs  cool,  calm,  and  ready  for  what  must  be  endured. 
Katherine  Gray,  the  morbid  horrors  of  the  night,  even  his 
sorrow  dropped  from  his  mind.  He  prepared  to  face  the 
long  account  of  facts  that  he  knew  must  be  awaiting  him 
after  last  night;  financial  entanglement,  debt,  even  the 
ruin  of  their  home  bore  an  aspect  of  faceable  reality.  The 
door  of  his  father's  study  was  open.  He  walked  in  and 
sat  himself  before  the  high  desk  where  night  after  night 
he  had  seen  account  books  piled  high  above  a  chaos  of 
figuring.     It  was  time  to  get  at  the  truth. 

But  from  the  book  in  which  his  father's  particular  ac- 
counts were  kept  an  envelope  tumbled  out  that  shortened 
his  labors.  It  was  addressed :  "  For  Robert  Roberts." 
Robert  opened  it  with  reverence.  The  letter  began  for- 
mally, apologetically,  just  like  his  father;  he  could  almost 
hear  his  husky  voice,  breaking  to  clear,  as  he  spoke : 

"Dear  Robert: 

"  In  case  anything  happens  to  me  thee'll  find  the  ac- 
counts of  the  estate  (see  next  pages)  correct  up  to  to-day. 
[The  date  had  been  changed  three  times;  the  last  one  only 
a  month  old.]  I've  been  carrying  the  land  I  bought  in 
Sussex  County  (deeds  in  the  safe  deposit  box)  for  several 
years  now.  It's  sure  to  go  at  a  big  profit  as  soon  as  the 
trolley  line  goes  through,  and  I  hope  thee  won't  sacrifice  it. 

95 


96  OUR  HOUSE 

So  my  notes  at  the  banks  (see  list  on  page  9)  are  a  little 
high  now ;  but  I  hope  to  clear  them  all  up  in  a  year  or  so. 
[The  "  or  so  "  had  been  inserted ;  —  by  why  did  he  write 
this  letter  at  all  if  he  thought  he  had  years  to  live  ?]  The 
house  is  unencumbered.  I  want  it  to  stay  just  as  it  was  in 
father's  time.  I've  always  tried  to  make  thy  mother  com- 
fortable. Thee  must  do  the  same.  Thee  must  do  the 
same.  [Did  he  mean  to  write  that  twice  ?]  She  must  live 
as  she  has  always  lived  in  Millingtown. 
"  With  love, 

"  Father." 

His  eye  moistened  a  little  over  the  familiar  signature; 
then  he  saw  the  figures  of  the  opposite  pages,  and  took  in 
their  meanings  slowly.  The  sum  total  made  him  groan. 
It  was  that  cursed  Sussex  land,  bought  on  borrowed  money, 
that  had  made  the  trouble.  This  was  the  "  bank  "  busi- 
ness that  Trimbill  had  crudely  guessed  to  be  stocks.  But 
when  he  subtracted  debt  from  collateral,  added  the  land  at 
its  low  assessed  value,  and  put  in  the  worth  of  the  house, 
the  amount  that  remained  was  more  than  respectable. 
Why,  this  was  not  so  bad;  not  half  so  bad  as  in  his  occa- 
sional panics  he  had  often  imagined.  Mother  could  live 
on  the  income  in  a  smaller  house!  If  she  lived  with 
Cousin  J  enny  she  could  do  it  easily ;  —  and  he  would  be 
free!  A  gust  of  passion  swept  through  him.  Perhaps 
his  duty  was  done,  now  that  he  had  tried  to  help  his  father. 
Perhaps  he  was  free  to  work  out  his  own  future ! 

He  dropped  the  letter  and  stared  at  the  pigeon  holes  of 
the  desk,  thinking  with  all  his  might.  But  where  had  been 
the  tragedy?  What  had  worn  his  father  down?  If  he 
had  sold  that  miserable  land  at  what  it  cost,  he  could  have 
paid  his  debts.  No  —  he  saw  why  that  couldn't  be  done. 
The  profit  was  needed  to  keep  our  house  running.     But  if 


KELEASE  97 

lie  had  sold  the  house  they  would  have  been  on  easy  street ! 
Why  ?     Why  ?  —  he  thought  vainly. 

Breakfast  was  ready.  He  could  hear  familiar  sounds 
in  the  dining-room  across  the  hall,  George  humming  a 
plaintive  melody,  dishes  softly  clicking !  Smells  of  coffee 
and  of  hot  cakes  drifted  toward  him.  The  old  clock  in  the 
hall  struck  eight.  The  front  door  creaked  with  its  com- 
fortable, ancient  whine.  The  fronds  of  the  trumpet  vine 
rustled  at  the  open  window.  He  must  go  out  and  take  up 
the  day;  but  for  the  moment  the  unruffled  peace  of  our 
house  held  him.  He  could  feel  it  breathing,  stirring 
within  its  old  walls  as  if  no  weight  of  sorrow  lay  on  its 
heart.  He  could  feel  its  old  gray  stone  grow  warm  beneath 
the  morning  sun.  Through  the  open  door  he  could  see  his 
grandfather  and  his  great-grandfather  looking  down  from 
their  frames  on  the  dim,  quiet  hallway,  where  they  had 
walked  in  peace  through  long,  comfortable  lives.  Powder 
snoozed  in  confident  security  upon  the  rug  beneath  them. 
The  house  protected  his  old  age.  It  had  protected  them  all 
for  how  many  generations!  Nowhere  else  did  one  feel 
secure,  at  home. 

A  stranger  in  black  tiptoed  through  the  hall,  and  went 
out.  Robert  shuddered ;  —  an  undertaker !  The  thought 
of  his  unwelcome  presence  jarred  upon  the  peace.  To- 
morrow every  one  would  come.  They  would  fill  the  house 
with  chairs;  and  then  the  inventory;  and  after  that  the 
sale !  People  pawing  their  furniture ;  an  auctioneer  per- 
haps ;  —  and  finally  strange,  noisy  barbarians  living  in 
these  rooms,  owning  our  house;  altering,  changing,  re- 
fitting ;  —  people  who  knew  nothing  of  the  old  life  there, 
and  cared  nothing !  To  sell  our  house !  It  seemed  cruel, 
monstrous,  impossible ! 

Suddenly  he  began  to  understand  his  father's  tragedy. 

The  cousins  were  beginning  to  arrive.     He  could  hear 


98  OUR  HOUSE 

the  creak  of  the  door,  whispers,  bass  murmurs,  footfalls 
that  came  as  far  as  the  study  and  then  turned  back.  They 
were  so  much  at  home  out  there,  so  welcome,  so  familiar 
in  our  house,  that  he  could  not  bear  to  face  them  with  this 
thing  on  his  mind.  After  a  while  he  heard  Cousin  Jenny's 
voice.  It  mingled  with  the  others ;  then  he  knew  her  firm 
footsteps.     She  stood  before  him. 

*  Well  % " 

There  was  no  faltering  in  Cousin  Jenny.  He  knew 
what  she  meant  and  answered.  "  Not  so  bad  as  I  thought. 
But  —  we'll  have  to  sell  the  Sussex  land,  and  —  our 
house." 

He  was  frightened  by  the  effect  of  his  words.  The  frail 
old  lady  closed  her  eyes  and  swayed  slightly.  Eobert  re- 
membered that  she  had  been  born  in  that  room,  that  she 
had  lived  in  our  house  until  grandfather  died.  But  all 
she  said  was,  "  Thy  poor  mother  " ;  then  hurried  out. 

Mother !  He  saw  now  that  selfishly  he  had  been  think- 
ing only  of  himself.  What  must  our  house  mean  to  her ! 
For  a  moment  he  followed  the  twists  and  turns  of  his  fa- 
ther's struggle.  Mother  living  elsewhere!  Mother  shut 
out  of  her  own  room  with  the  mahogany  setting  for  her  tall, 
slender  grace;  mother  away  from  the  living-room  where 
every  chair  was  placed  by  her;  mother  who  loved  every 
inch  of  our  house,  to  be  torn  from  it,  and  from  her  roses, 
her  shrubs,  her  background  of  ancient,  comfortable  peace. 
It  simply  could  not  be.  Dimly  —  as  he  began  to  compre- 
hend the  fight  to  keep  things  as  they  were  on  a  failing  in- 
come, as  he  remembered  his  father's  shy  jocularity  paling 
to  the  weary,  nervous  intensity  of  the  last  year  —  he  saw 
that  probably  even  more  yet  was  involved,  more  than  he 
with  his  still  fluid  youth  could  rightly  appreciate.  Per- 
haps —  if  Cousin  Tom  would  help  him ;  —  if  they  would 


EELEASE  99 

put  him  in  his  father's  place  there  at  the  office ;  —  if  he 
worked  like  the  devil,  he  might  sell  the  land,  and  then  for 
a  while,  even  yet,  keep  things  as  they  were  at  home.  "  She 
must  live  as  she  has  always  lived  in  Millingtown." 

"  No,"  he  cried  and  struck  the  old  desk  with  tight- 
squeezed  fist.  "  No."  "  Must "  was  the  word  that  had 
driven  his  father.  There  was  no  "  must "  except  the 
necessity  of  facts.  Like  the  cold  sting  of  his  bath  that 
morning  his  new  pessimism  chilled  him,  braced  him.  Yes 
—  so  he  reflected  bitterly  —  to  enter  upon  the  same  hope- 
less path,  keeping  up,  until  the  strain  broke  him  too.  It 
might  be  noble  and  romantic  but  it  wasn't  common  sense ; 
it  didn't  square  with  the  facts.  John  Koberts  with  his 
knowledge  and  a  long  and  successful  experience  had  more 
than  an  even  chance  to  pull  through.  He  had  none.  Why 
had  his  father  died  if  he  were  to  learn  nothing  from  his 
failure !  "  I'll  be  sensible,  no  matter  what  they  say," 
he  murmured  through  pinched  lips.  Like  Cousin  Jenny 
he  closed  his  eyes.  The  old,  familiar  room  reproached 
him.  He  would  have  shut  his  ears  to  the  morning  stir  of 
the  household,  its  murmurings  of  friendliness,  and  sorrow, 
and  love  through  the  peaceful  halls  of  our  house ;  but  some 
one  entered. 

It  was  his  mother.  When  he  saw  her,  trembling  a  little, 
haggard,  in  black,  he  ran  and  hugged  and  kissed  her;  and 
then,  holding  her  tight,  fought  against  unmanly  tears. 
She  was  so  calm,  so  gentle,  and  yet  so  pathetically  weary. 
There  was  no  one  like  his  mother ! 

"  I  slept  hard,  Robbie  dear.  I  feel  better.  Now  — 
tell  me." 

She  too  had  guessed  tragedy.  He  turned  to  the  desk 
to  hide  his  face,  and  gave  her  the  letter.  As  she  read,  he 
fought  a  grim  and  doubtful  battle.     To  spare  her  the  blow, 


100  OUR  HOUSE 

—  to  reserve  it  until  the  more  terrible  shock  was  past, — 
to  spare  her  at  any  costs, —  to  do  what  was  right  at  all 
costs, —  to  spare  her ! 

"  I  don't  understand  the  figures,  Robbie  dear." 

He  told  her. 

"  They  mean  ?  — "  When  she  looked  at  him  that  way 
with  her  clear,  calm  gray  eyes,  he  had  always  told  her  the 
whole  truth, —  from  babyhood  up,  the  whole  truth.  Some 
nobility  in  her  soul  had  always  seemed  to  lift  his  own;  to 
hide  a  deed  or  a  thought  had  seemed  worse  than  punish- 
ment. He  tried  to  hold  back  now,  but  habit  was  too  strong 
for  him. 

"  They  mean  —  we  ought  to  give  up  the  house, —  our 
house." 

She  sank  into  the  chair  as  if  he  had  struck  her.  u  Oh, 
mother,"  he  cried  panic-stricken.  "  I  can't  ask  thee  to  do 
it !  I  can't ! "  To  dedicate  his  energies  to  a  hopeless 
struggle,  and  sell  himself  to  business  and  money-making 
for  life  seemed  easy  beside  this  pain, —  and  yet  he  could 
not  feel  happiness  that  way.  "  I'm  still  soft,"  he  thought 
fiercely. 

"  It's  thy  father,  dear ;  his  house,  our  house,"  she  sobbed. 

Tears  burnt  his  eyes;  he  gripped  the  chair  and  forced 
the  words  from  his  lips.  "  We  must  cut  down  —  rad- 
ically. Selling  the  house  is  the  only  way  to  do  it."  He 
felt  as  if  he  were  bruising  her  flesh.  What  a  mess  facts 
made  of  love  and  life  and  happiness!  As  she  sat  there, 
quiet,  with  pinched  lips,  he  began  to  see  what  this  firmness 
might  cost  him.  His  vivid  imagination  ran  ahead  upon 
tracks  that  his  reading  had  provided.     He  would  hold  out 

—  but  there  would  be  reproach  and  regret  and  unhappy, 
painful  readjustment.  He  would  have  to  hurt  his  mother 
daily.  She  would  never  understand.  There  was  no  such 
thing  as  freedom  —  once  you  came  of  age. 


EELEASE  101 

She  dried  her  tears,  rose,  put  one  hand  en  his  shoulder 
and  spoke  softly.  "  I  knew  we  should  have  done  it  — 
long  ago,"  she  said.  "  But  it  meant  —  it  meant  sa^rileee 
to  him  —  and  to  me  too.  We  thought  that  the  house 
must  go  on,  just  as  it  was,  just  as  it  has  always  been,  to 
thee  —  and  thy  wife  —  as  it  has  to  all  the  Robertses.  It 
seemed  easier  to  wait  a  little,  until  we  could  sell  the  land." 

"  Mother !  "  he  cried  in  horror.  "  For  me !  You  did 
it  for  me !  " 

"  Eor  all  of  us,"  she  answered  gently.  "  We  loved  our 
house  so.  I  thought  it  was  noble  of  him.  I  did  not 
know  — "  her  voice  broke  — "  it  would  lead  to  this." 

And  then  she  put  her  grief  behind  her,  and  smiled  at  his 
flushed  hopelessness,  with  that  ineffable  smile  which  was 
his  first  memory  of  childhood.  "  Silly  old  boy," —  the 
words  surprised  and  embarrassed  him.  "  Does  thee  think 
I  would  let  the  house  stand  in  the  way  of  thy  chance  in  life ! 
And  I  couldn't  live  on  here  now,  alone !  What  difference, 
does  it  make  where  I  live,  now  he  is  gone.  "  Dear  — "  as 
he  started  to  protest  " —  I'm  not  a  baby.  Go  eat  thy 
breakfast.     Quick!     We  all  need  thy  strength." 

He  kissed  her  with  wondering  admiration,  mingled  with 
humility ;  —  and  then  again  passionately,  for  he  knew  that 
she  was  setting  him  free.  Had  he  earned  his  freedom? 
A  tiny  glow  of  gratification  answered  in  his  heart.  He 
had  been  honest  with  the  facts.  They  were  not  so  bad 
when  one  handled  them.  Slowly  the  cold  and  bitter  block 
that  weighed  upon  his  heart  began  to  disintegrate  and  melt 
in  the  reviving  warmth  of  love  and  hope.  "  It  was  noble 
of  father,"  he  thought,  as  he  sipped  his  coffee.  "  I  know 
what  reality  is  now, — for  other  people  " ;  and  instantly 
a  palpitating  desire  to  know  more  of  it  for  himself  set  his 
hand  atremble,  made  his  heart  burn,  and  shot  through  with 
rose  and  fire  the  clouds  that  hung  over  the  future. 


102  OUR  HOUSE 

•  -  Boside  bis  .plate  was  a  package  addressed  in  Mary 
Sharpe's  fine  hand,,  and  a  letter  from  Johnny  Bolt,  post- 
marked Is'ew;  York.  He  opened  the  letter  first.  "Time 
to  report  on  ways  of  living,  old  man,  as  per  agreement  on 
window-seat  that  night.  I'm  happy.  Are  you?  But  I 
was  nearly  bored  yesterday.  Come  over  and  have  a  talk. 
Bed  here  for  you ;  —  New  York  on  me."  In  the  package 
was  a  print  of  Raphael's  fine  archangel  trampling  down 
the  ancient  symbol  of  bitterness  and  death.  It  heartened 
him. 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER  I 

JOHKNTT   BOLT 

IN"  the  middle  of  the  night  after  the  funeral,  Eobert 
Eoberts  lay  on  his  bed  drowsily  planning  his  course. 
First  to  sell  the  house.  Then  the  Sussex  land,  as  Cousin 
John  advised.  Then  pay  up  the  debts,  arrange  an  income 
for  mother, —  and  start  fresh.  Start  fresh  !  He  was  sud- 
denly wide  awake.  At  what?  Where?  How?  His 
brain  slackened;  refused  to  grapple  with  that  problem; 
chose  rather  to  speculate  on  how  he  could  get  free  from 
the  net  that  still  entangled  him  here.  There  was  the  busi- 
ness. His  father  had  left  the  controlling  interest  in  the 
company  to  him.  If  he  should  pull  out,  Trimbill  would 
probably  leave  too.  Then  the  company  would  blow  up, 
and  his  stock  be  worth  nothing.  If  he  stayed  on,  he  must 
give  up  his  ambitions  for  a  different  life.  "  Why  in  thun- 
der are  things  so  complicated  ?  "  he  groaned.  A  knot  had 
been  cut  by  circumstance,  and  yet  here  was  the  tangle  as 
bad  as  ever !  And  then  the  triviality  of  these  difficulties 
in  comparison  with  what  he  had  been  experiencing  braced 
and  comforted  his  weary  mind.  He  jumped  out  of  bed, 
took  a  look  at  the  stars,  buried  his  face  in  cool  water, 
popped  in  again,  and  slept. 

The  tangle  was  to  unravel  with  frightening  rapidity. 
On  his  father's  desk  in  the  office,  he  found  a  letter  from  the 
new  superintendent  at  the  steel  mills,  inquiring  whether 
the  house  would  be  on  the  market.  He  read  it  with  thank- 
fulness and  woe.     Then  softly,  importantly,  entered  Mr. 

Trimbill,  a  sheaf  of  yellow  papers  in  his  hand.     Flame  was 

105 


106  OUR  HOUSE 

in  his  yellow  eyes,  a  flush  upon  his  gaunt  cheek,  that  meant 
"  big  business." 

"  I  hope,"  he  said  in  his  oiliest,  "  that  this  sad  event 
isn't  goin'  to  make  any  difference  in  the  company.  I'm 
told  you  inherit  your  father's  stock.  I  hope  you're  goin' 
to  take  his  place." 

Eobert  tried  to  divine  his  meaning.  He  risked  a  tiny 
bluff.     "  Have  you  any  changes  to  suggest  ?  " 

It  worked.  Trimbill's  face  grew  gaunter.  The  flame 
died  in  his  eyes.  "  I'm  vury  glad  you're  not  thinkin'  of 
leavin'  us,"  he  managed  to  squeeze  out. 

Robert  gripped  his  chair  arm  to  keep  from  smiling. 
M  But  —  I  am ;  I'm  getting  out,  I  think."  To  his  sur- 
prise, the  words,  when  he  came  to  them,  were  hard  to  say. 
They  seemed  dangerously  irrevocable. 

Light  sprang  again  from  Trimbill's  eyes.  "  I'm  vury, 
vury  sorry.  But  if  you're  really  leavin',  perhaps  we  can 
make  a  deal.  Of  course,"  he  waved  his  yellow  sheaf  con- 
temptuously, "  the  crowd  that's  backin'  me  can  have  any- 
thing they  like.  But  this  old  place  is  kind  of  familiar. 
If  you're  gettin'  out  —  why,  I've  got  some  little  ideas  I 
want  to  try  in  this  town  " ;  he  tapped  his  yellow  papers 
dizzily.  "  Big  little  ideas,  Robert.  It's  a  great  chance," 
he  whispered  hoarsely,  "  for  a  man  who'll  apply  modern 
ideas  to  real  estate.  Take  incorporatin'  land,  and  then 
sellin'  stock.  Thousands  in  it,  Robert !  Yes,  my  crowd'll 
buy  you  out,  at  a  reasonable  figure." 

"  And  gold-bond  mortgages  ?  "  Robert  suggested  slyly. 

Trimbill's  countenance  looked  upon  the  promised  land ; 
his  hands  trembled.  "  Thousands  in  them,  Robert,  hun- 
dreds of  thousands,  for  a  man  with  really  big  ideas." 

"  Like  you !  Right  you  are,  Mr.  Trimbill.  Well,  ten 
thousand's  my  price." 

"  Ten!  "  Trimbill  echoed  faintly. 


JOHNNY  BOLT  107 

u  Ten."  Robert  bit  back  bis  amusement.  "  You  can't 
expect  me  to  sell  a  hundred  thousand  dollar  prospect  for 
less  than  ten  per  cent."  He  was  choosing  his  words  care- 
fully from  Trimbill's  own  vocabulary.  I'll  bet  he'll  never 
bring  himself  to  say  that  it's  a  prospect  only,  he  chuckled 
to  himself,  and  was  right. 

Trimbill  lifted  his  lank  body  on  soft  feet.  "  My  propo- 
sition's —  six,"  he  put  forward  hesitantly.  One  could  see 
that  his  lips  balked  at  so  petty  a  sum.  Robert  shook  his 
head.  "  Seven  ?  "  he  asked  at  the  threshold,  sighed,  and 
withdrew.  Through  the  open  door  Robert  could  see  him 
covering  sheets  of  yellow  paper  with  intricate  figuring. 
After  a  while  the  yellow  eyes  began  to  gleam  again  and 
the  thin  face  to  flush.  He  stole  back.  "  Robert,"  he 
whispered  in  a  voice  heavy  with  prophecy,  "  the  big  thing 
in  the  future  is  goin'  to  be  insurance.  I'm  vury  sure  of 
that.  If  I  put  in  an  insurance  branch,  why  — "  he  strug- 
gled with  his  emotions.  "  Say,  Robert,"  his  face  crim- 
soned. u  I'll  tell  you  the  truth.  My  crowd  can't  go  more 
than  eight.     Make  it  that,  Robert,  and  we'll  shake  hands." 

And  yet,  when  Robert  Roberts  found  himself  free  at 
last,  with  the  income  of  eight  thousand  his  very  own  to 
help  him  in  the  great  experiment,  his  heart  sank  instead  of 
leaping.     He  was  afraid  of  the  dark. 

The  house  could  not  be  transferred  for  a  month.  There 
was  a  month  in  which  to  wind  up  their  affairs,  a  month  be- 
fore he  had  to  make  up  his  mind,  a  month  before  he  need 
leave  Millingtown  —  if  he  left  it.  With  strong  persua- 
siveness, Johnny  Bolt's  invitation  came  back  to  memory. 
Johnny,  not  Bill  or  any  of  the  rest  of  them,  seemed  help- 
ful in  this  urgency, —  he  did  not  stop  to  ask  why.  It 
would  be  heart's  ease  to  go  off  once  more  while  there  was 
home,  in  our  house,  to  come  back  to.     Dull  of  mind,  fogged 


108  OUR  HOUSE 

in  spirit,  obstinately  looking  away  from  the  future,  he 
took  the  train  for  New  York. 

The  surprising  thing  was  that  he  had  scarcely  guessed 
it,  that  not  until  a  certain  instant  did  he  know.  All  the 
way  over  it  was  fog  without  on  the  fields  and  woods,  and 
fog  within  his  brain.  Then,  as  he  stepped  upon  the  upper 
deck  of  the  ferry,  a  breeze  from  the  bay  tore  off  the  mist 
from  the  river,  swirled  the  white  gulls  over  the  masts  and 
funnels  of  the  liners,  and  cleared  the  piled-up  towers  of 
New  York.  Then,  with  a  whirl,  his  mind  cleared  also, 
eagerness  was  reborn  in  it,  zest  came  back,  and,  sharp  as 
a  hammer  stroke,  it  was  driven  in  upon  him  that  in  spite 
of  deep  experience  he  had  not  yet  tasted  Ms  life.  The 
life  of  our  house  he  had  caught,  learning  its  sadness  and 
happiness  before  too  late ;  but  the  world  that  was  to  be  his 
own  world  was  still  to  come.  The  quiet,  loyal  content  of 
Millingtown  blew  from  him  like  dust  on  the  breeze;  only 
its  friendliness,  its  realities,  remained  about  his  heart. 

The  awakening  youthfulness  of  Robert  Roberts  was  first 
seized  by  a  certain  fastidiousness  in  the  dress  of  Johnny 
Bolt.  He  noted  a  concordance  of  tie  and  shirt,  a  flare 
of  hat-brim,  a  slanting  pocket  on  the  coat,  that  were  evi- 
dently metropolitan,  and  might  be  adopted,  even  by  one  in 
mourning.  Then  they  sat  down  over  two  steins  of  beer, 
and  talked.  He  found  it  curiously  easy  to  unbosom  be- 
fore Johnny.  Millingtown,  in  his  presence,  took  on  a 
humorous,  ironic  aspect  that  gave  it  color  and  interest. 
He  could  tell  all  but  his  most  intimate  experiences,  with 
gain,  not  loss,  in  their  freshness.  Only  Katherine  Gray, 
and  his  father's  pathos  hung  back  upon  his  tongue.  The 
summer  had  seemed  a  life-time;  now  that  he  talked  it  out 
to  Johnny  Bolt,  it  became  a  rich  episode  merely,  some- 
thing that  one  would  not  have  missed.     But  he  could  not 


JOHNNY  BOLT  109 

bring  himself  to  talk  of  the  future.  He  dodged  the  sub- 
ject, evaded  chance  references,  talked  fast  to  cover  pauses 
where  ominous  questions  might  show  their  heads. 

And  it  was  curious  with  what  perfect  tact  the  careless 
Johnny  fed  his  craving  for  fresh  youth  and  activity. 
For  three  days  they  were  never  at  home.  Some  one  was 
always  laughing,  some  one  ever  proposing  something  to  do. 
They  made  fun  of  responsibility  as  they  had  done  at  col- 
lege. They  dressed  with  a  flair,  and  walked  with  arm  on 
shoulder  down  Broadway.  They  drank  more  beer  than 
was  good  for  their  digestions,  and  tried  more  restaurants 
than  Kobert  had  entered  in  all  his  previous  experience.  At 
intervals,  a  wave  of  sadness  would  catch  him  unawares, 
submerging  him  momentarily  in  bitterness  or  grief.  In 
such  instants  he  wondered  remorsefully  at  his  jollity,  his 
carefree  humor.  But  common  sense  told  him  that  this 
was  needed  reaction,  and  healing  mirth.  He  loved  his 
mother  and  his  father's  memory  no  less  for  laughter  now. 

On  the  first  day  Robert  told  his  story.  On  the  second, 
they  talked  college.  On  the  third,  Johnny  opened  a  vein 
of  practical  philosophy  that  lasted  until  midnight.  It  was 
this  day  that  they  drank  the  most  beer.  And  then,  near 
midnight,  at  a  table  in  the  old  Grand  Union,  beneath  a 
picture  of  a  pinkish  Venus  rising  from  foamy  waves,  the 
climax  came. 

Robert  tried  to  avert  it.  He  wished  to  live  in  the  past 
or  present  a  little  longer.  He  felt  instinctively  that  when 
the  topic  hovering  between  them  should  alight  and  ma- 
terialize, he  would  have  to  look  into  his  heart  at  last,  and 
bring  forth  whatever  weak,  unformed  resolves  were  shap- 
ing there.  He  wanted  to  stay  irresponsibly  young  a  little 
longer. 

Johnny  began  it  with  the  old  light  query,  which  ex- 


110  OUK  HOUSE 

pressed,  however,  an  interest  out  of  proportion  to  its  sub- 
stance. "  Well,  what  next,  old  fellow, —  literature,  schol- 
arship, real  estate,  or  soap  ?  " 

Eobert  parried.  "  I  can't  see  that  you  are  in  any  hurry 
to  add  to  the  world's  commodities." 

Johnny  spun  his  glass.  "  I'm  not.  I've  got  something 
more  important  to  do.  The  world  doesn't  need  com- 
modities as  much  as  I  need  a  good  time.  I'm  experiment- 
ing in  living,  Bob." 

"  But  what  are  you  doing?  " 

"  What  I'm  doing  is  irrelevant.  It's  how  I'm  feeling 
that  counts.  Just  now  I'm  feeling  fine.  To-morrow  I 
may  be  bored  again.  I  have  my  ups  and  downs.  But  I'm 
getting  the  system  worked  out  so  that  I'm  never  off  color 
more  than  a  day  or  so." 

"  But,  Johnny,  you  aren't  seriously  going  to  do  nothing 
for  keeps  ?  " 

Johnny  sighed  drearily.  "  The  inability  of  the  human 
mind  to  get  a  new  point  of  view  makes  me  pessimistic. 
All  you  think  about  is  do,  do,  as  if  doing  made  any  espe- 
cial difference.  Now  all  I  care  about  is  how  to  live.  If 
I  have  to  do  in  order  to  live,  by  golly,  I'll  do,  but  not  for 
any  other  foolish  reason." 

Eobert  was  impressed  by  his  intensity,  but  not  by  the 
argument.  Learning  to  do  well  what  one  wanted  to  do 
loomed  so  importantly  for  him  just  now  that  he  could  not 
think  of  living  as  something  distinct.  Furthermore,  his 
vivid  imagination  saw  in  Johnny's  philosophy  Epicurean- 
ism as  the  vulgar  understand  it,  and  viewed  with  alarm 
its  probable  course.  "  What  do  you  do  when  you  get 
bored  ? "  he  proposed,  as  a  leading  question.  "  Get 
tight  ? " 

"  What  do  you  ? "  Johnny  retorted.     "  Something  by 


JOHNNY  BOLT  111 

way  of  a  change,  don't  you  ?  What  the  devil  are  you  going 
to  do,  Kobert  Roberts  ?  " 

Before  he  knew  it,  his  tongue  was  unloosened,  his  heart 
freeing  itself,  his  mind  revealing  its  secret  speculations  in 
words  whose  definiteness  surprised  him.  All  his  vague 
leanings  toward  self-expression,  all  his  reactions  to  nature, 
to  art,  to  the  ideal  and  the  beautiful,  all  his  determination 
to  find  some  work  where  the  labor  itself  might  be  an  end, 
marshaled  themselves  in  reasonable  coherence  and  spoke 
out  at  last.  Johnny  the  idle,  Johnny  the  skeptical,  Johnny 
the  connoisseur  of  life,  provided  an  atmosphere  in  which 
such  vague  thoughts  could  form  and  claim  reality.  He 
listened,  silent,  all  through,  then  caught  Robert's  hand 
across  the  table  and  shook  it  hard.  "  You're  saved,  my 
boy,"  he  cried.  But  the  ironic  gleam  came  back.  "  Now, 
what  are  you  going  to  do  I  " 

Five  minutes  before,  Robert  Roberts  had  but  vaguely 
known.  Now  he  thought  that  he  knew.  "  I  think  I'll  try 
to  write,"  he  said  calmly. 

"  Write  what  ?  " 

Robert  hesitated.  He  did  not  wish  to  bring  to  light  the 
shy  flowers  of  fancy  just  budding  in  the  inmost  recesses 
of  his  mind.  "  Oh,  what  I  can, —  essays,  stories,  perhaps 
a  novel  some  day, —  and  then,  well,  I've  got  some  ideas  for 
doing  things  on  —  well,  nature.  I  can't  tell  you  now." 
He  blushed  and  stammered.  Indeed  it  was  not  clear  to 
him  what  he  could  do,  although  the  desire  was  strong 
enough  (he  hoped)  for  anything. 

Johnny  puffed  a  cigarette  thoughtfully,  then  felt  for  a 
coin,  and  spun  it  on  the  table.  "  Heads,  I  give  him  ad- 
vice, and  make  a  fool  of  myself.  Tails,  I  don't. —  It's 
heads. —  Waiter,  beer."  He  settled  back,  and  hardening 
his  long  Irish  mouth  that  had  a  way  of  turning  up  at  the 


112  OUR  HOUSE 

corners,  crossed  his  arms  with  one  hand  over  his  face  and 
the  other  clutching  his  left  ear,  in  patent  imitation  of  old 
Professor  Whitcomb.  "  My  son,"  he  said  with  portentous 
solemnity,  "  I've  got  to  ask  you  some  questions.  Do  you 
understand  the  nebular  hypothesis  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  answered  Robert  Roberts,  puzzled  but 
amused.  He  had  always  dreaded  Johnny's  stock  of  gen- 
eral information.     "  But  what's  the  point  ?  " 

Johnny  did  not  answer.  "  Good.  Have  you  read  Kant 
or  Schopenhauer  ? " 

"  An  extract  or  two,"  said  Robert,  still  puzzled. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  Nietzsche  I  " 

"  N-nothing." 

"Neo-Platonism?" 

"  Never  heard  of  it." 

"  Early  Christianity  ?  " 

"  What  everybody  knows,  I  suppose." 

"  Which  is  to  say  very  little  and  that  wrong.  Well, 
let's  try  science.  How  about  heredity?  The  determina- 
tion of  race  ?     The  psychology  of  suggestion  ?  " 

"  Mighty  little  of  any  of  them,  and  nothing  of  most," 
Robert  answered  very  honestly.  Johnny's  perfect  simili- 
tude of  a  cross-questioning  attorney  was  still  amusing,  but 
the  questions  were  beginning  to  sting.  "  What  is  this  — 
an  inquisition  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  an  exposure."  Johnny  twisted  his  mouth  into 
a  smile,  just  to  show  that  no  offense  was  intended,  then 
went  on :  "  Do  you  know  any  more  history  than  —  when 
you  were  in  college  ?  Well,  you  needn't  answer.  Is  your 
knowledge  of  social  conditions  still  limited  to  the  course 
you  took  in  sophomore  year  ?  Good  God !  You  expect  to 
go  in  for  literature,  I'm  told.  How  wide  is  your  reading 
in  Erench  and  German  ?  Yes,  I  know  we  read  four  or 
five  text-books  in  class.     And  that's  all ! !     How  about 


JOHNNY  BOLT  113 

English  ?  I  don't  know  enough  to  give  you  really  search- 
ing questions.  Your  reading's  wider  than  mine,  I  sup- 
pose ?  As  wide  ?  I've  heen  reading  all  summer,  have 
you?" 

"  Not  so  wide,  I'm  afraid,"  answered  Robert  faintly. 

Johnny  shook  his  head  at  the  pink  Venus.  u  He  doesn't 
care  what  other  people  have  written!  Well,  let's  try  es- 
thetics. I've  been  picking  up  a  few  things  there  since  I 
left  college,  but  of  course  I'm  only  a  Philistine.  Now  you 
are  an  artist,  Rob  —  at  least  I  think  you  are  —  and  this 
ought  to  be  your  strong  subject.  How  about  sculpture? 
No !  Well,  that's  a  little  special.  Architecture  ?  No ! ! 
Well,  you've  never  been  abroad.  Painting?  Only  a  lit- 
tle ! !  Music  ?  No ! ! !  Good  God,  Eobert  Roberts,  how 
in  hell  do  you  expect  to  write  when  you  don't  know  any- 
thing !  "     Johnny  brought  his  fist  down  in  despair. 

Robert  was  panting  angrily.  u  It's  life  that  really 
counts, —  not  just  knowledge,"  he  cried. 

"  Damned  nonsense !  Waiter  —  beer  — "  Johnny  flung 
into  full  tide  again.  "  Of  course  life  counts  most,  but 
how  in  thunder  are  you  going  to  understand  it  until  you 
know  how  it  works,  what  its  principles  are!  Now  don't 
fire  Shakespeare  at  me  with  his  little  Latin  and  less  Greek. 
That  fellow  had  more  good  social  science  and  philosophy 
and  literature  and  history  up  his  sleeve  than  you'll  ever 
boast  of,  if  you  do  know  that  the  earth  goes  round  the 
sun  while  he  didn't.  Besides,  he  was  Shakespeare.  I 
think  well  of  your  intellect,  Rob,  but  I'd  advise  you  to 
take  a  handicap  in  the  form  of  modern  education,  if  it's 
offered  you." 

Robert  calmed  down  with  thought.  The  actor  at  the 
next  table,  drinking  a  solitary  high-ball,  watched  his  fine 
mobile  face  with  interest  and  admiration,  noting  the  play 
of  mingled  emotions   and  wondering  what  they  meant. 


114  OUR  HOUSE 

Johnny's  merry  countenance  with  its  ironic  eyes  and 
eager  mouth  puzzled  him  less.  "  Rounder,  I  guess,"  he 
thought,  "  but  brains.  What's  he  doin'  with  the  other 
chap  3  " 

"  I  get  your  point,  Johnny,  of  course,"  Robert  answered 
at  last,  feeling  for  his  words.  "  But  I've  had,"  his  face 
darkened,  "  some  experience.  I  think  you  have  to  —  to 
feel  things  before  your  old  ics  and  ologies  can  do  any  good. 
I  don't  know  just  how  to  say  it  —  but  what  I  want  to  do 
most  before  I  try  to  write  is,  well,  just  to  feel  really  alive; 
to  have  things  feel  real ;  —  that's  awkward,  but  do  you  see 
what  I  mean  ?  " 

Johnny  paused  before  answering  him.  "  I  suppose 
you're  right.  I  guess  I  think  about  things  more  than  I 
feel  them.  But  what  you  need  is  to  think.  Your  kind 
always  feels.  Honestly,  Rob,  it's  too  late  in  the  day  to 
write  without  doing  a  whole  lot  of  knowing  first.  See 
what  happens  to  the  fellows  that  just  stick  their  emotions 
on  to  paper  like  stamps  on  an  envelope."  He  pointed  with 
his  cane  to  a  half-opened  magazine,  lying  torn  and  soiled 
upon  the  marble  floor.  A  foot  had  trod  upon  the  cover 
and  half  effaced  the  list  of  favorite  writers  at  the  top. 
"  Those  fellows  are  paid  well.  They  think  they're  hot 
stuff.  But  what  they  turn  out  — "  he  lifted  the  magazine, 
sodden  with  beer  drippings  — "  is  just  plain  pulp. 
They've  seen  life  all  right,  but  they  weren't  competent  to 
observe  it.  My  God,  I'll  disown  you,  Bob,  if  you  go  in 
for  that !  " 

Shame  mingled  with  a  kind  of  joy  kept  Robert  silent, 
although  his  face  glowed  and  his  fingers  clutched  the  table 
tensely.  He  had  never  considered  truth  in  writing.  It 
had  seemed  to  him  that  imagination  was  all.  But  here  at 
least  was  something  immediate,  definite,  hard,  that  must 
be  done  first,  now,  before  he  could  carry  out  his  plans. 


JOHNNY  BOLT  115 

That  much  he  was  willing  to  admit.  Once  outside  Milling- 
town  it  was  impossible  to  delude  oneself  with  the  thought 
that  one  was  good  for  anything  new  without  more  prepa- 
ration. Those  brothers  of  Mary  Sharpe, —  how  many 
years  did  she  say  that  they  had  worked  before  suc- 
cess ? 

Johnny  was  watching  his  face  a  little  sadly.  "  I'm 
sorry  it  came  heads.  I  ought  to  have  kept  my  big  mouth 
shut,"  he  remarked  with  a  sigh,  as  the  pause  lengthened. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  Eobert  answered  him  bravely.  u  Not 
a  bit.  On  the  main  point  you're  dead  right,  Johnny. 
I  know, —  well,  I  know  less  than  you  think  and  I  guess  I 
can't  say  more  than  that.  I  don't  believe  in  just  know- 
ing quite  as  much  as  you  do,  but " —  he  smiled  with  en- 
gaging frankness  — "  I  don't  know  enough  to  be  sure. 
Look  here  — "  suddenly  his  imagination  cast  out  an  idea 
which  his  brain  seized  upon  and  worked  through  hur- 
riedly. Yes,  it  could  be  done.  His  vague  plans  fell  into 
pattern;  confidence  affirmed  it;  scribbled  down  in  pencil 
upon  a  beer  check,  the  figures  were  convincingly  concrete. 
He  had  four  hundred  a  year  to  start  with ;  that  was  eight 
a  week.  A  little,  yes,  a  very  little  more  earned  at  some 
irregular  labor  would  grub-stake  an  earnest  worker  in  the 
field  of  knowledge  who  did  not  come  to  town  to  play. 
"  Look  here,  Johnny, —  suppose  I  came  over  here  to  read 
and  study,  and  perhaps  begin  to  write  — "  a  sudden 
thought  of  his  fears  for  Johnny's  future  met  and  blended 
with  his  plan  — "  If  I  come,  will  you  go  in  for  some  kind 
of  a  definite  course  with  me?  Will  you?"  His  appeal 
was  infectious. 

"  Will  I,"  cried  Johnny,  beating  the  table  with  his  cane. 
"  Just  watch  me !  Even  if  I  get  my  bluff  called,  as  I 
surely  will  when  you  begin  to  ask  me  questions.  Hey, 
waiter,  beer ! " 


116  OUR  HOUSE 

"  Now  they're  getting  full,"  remarked  the  actor  at  the 
next  table.     "  Only  college  boys,  after  all." 

"  Let  me  introduce  my  classmate  in  the  University  of 
Things-in-General,  waiter,"  cried  Johnny  to  the  grinning 
Italian.  "  A  coming  waiter,  writer ;  I  mean  writer, 
waiter.     Never  mind  —  beer." 

Underneath  Johnny's  mounting  gayety,  Robert  caught 
a  note  of  real  pleasure,  even  of  pride,  that  was  gratifying ; 
but  he  was  less  sure  of  the  sincerity  of  his  consent. 


CHAPTER  II 

NEW    YORK 

LEAVING  Millingtown  he  had  figured  to  himself  as 
a  cracking  of  bonds,  a  somewhat  glorious  burst  for 
freedom.  When  it  came  to  the  day,  it  was  very  different, 
puzzlingly  different.  From  the  breaking  up  of  our  house, 
the  sad  procession  of  household  treasures  across  the  gar- 
den to  Cousin  Jenny's,  and  the  sale  of  surplus  goods,  his 
mother  reserved  sufficient  cheerfulness  of  heart  to  urge  him 
toward  departure  and  the  new  life.  All  the  sympathetic 
understanding  that  had  softened  the  way  for  John  Roberts 
now  encircled  and  comforted  and  encouraged  the  son. 
He  was  to  come  back  to  Cousin  Jenny's  as  he  had  come 
home  from  college.  The  old  clock  ticked  in  her  hall,  his 
room  reproduced  itself  under  her  eaves,  the  grandfathers 
looked  down  upon  him  from  her  dining-room.  There  was 
to  be  no  change  except  that  now  he  was  going  to  seize  his  op- 
portunity, to  make  the  great  experiment  at  last. 

And  yet,  he  could  not  leave  as  once  he  left,  adventuring 
northward,  like  the  young  Vikings  who  sought  their  educa- 
tion on  the  sea,  glad  to  be  off  because  they  did  not  yet 
know  how  difficult  to  win  and  hold  was  home.  It  was 
not  that  he  had  struck  his  roots  more  deeply  in  Milling- 
town.  Indeed,  the  home  soil  had  irked  him,  and  he  had 
been  like  the  tumble  weed,  ready  for  any  gale  that  might 
blow  him  free.  It  was  rather  that  he  had  become  con- 
scious of  roots,  of  the  sustenance  one  drew  from  them,  of 
the  richness  of  the  earth  that  they  pierced.  At  the  very 
instant  when  he  was  preparing  to  make  himself  part  of 

117 


118  OUK  HOUSE 

another  civilization,  he  felt  as  never  before  a  son  of  his 
ancestors,  the  product  of  circumstances  that  he  might  one 
day  understand  better,  but  never  escape.  Heredity  and 
environment  as  shaping  influences  were  still  vague  ideas 
merely,  but  he  leaped  to  a  conclusion,  which  later  study 
was  to  confirm,  that  no  matter  how  far  he  might  travel 
from  Millingtown,  Millingtown  would  remain  dominant 
in  his  blood  and  brain. 

Over  the  fence  from  their  garden,  Mary  Sharpe  was 
gathering  her  grapes.  When  Robert  Eoberts  told  her  that 
he  was  going,  when  he  explained  with  a  pleasing  anticipa- 
tion of  approval  his  plans  and  his  hopes,  she  snipped  a 
dozen  bunches  and  filled  her  basket  before  she  replied. 
He  was  in  the  full  burst  of  enthusiasm  for  escape  and  self- 
development  then,  and  so  he  talked  freely  and  a  little 
pedantically  of  the  need  for  knowing,  of  the  cramping  air 
of  Millingtown,  of  the  broad  highroad  he  would  be  fol- 
lowing, not  noticing  her  silence.  When  she  spoke,  her 
voice,  muffled  by  the  grape  leaves,  was  unlike  her  quick 
firmness,  was  petulant  and  plaintive,  even  to  his  egoistical 
self.  u  Of  course,  I  congratulate  you  —  but,  couldn't  you 
wait  ?  Weren't  you  learning  here  ?  Ought  you  to  leave 
your  mother?  Oh,  it's  fine  I  know  that  you're  going, 
Eobert  Eoberts !     But  will  you  ever  come  back  ?  " 

"  Often ;  and  better  able  to  talk  to  you,"  he  answered 
simply. 

She  flushed  angrily.  "  '  Able  ' —  I  don't  know  any- 
thing !  I'm  not  good  for  anything !  In  a  year  you'll  be 
ahead  of  me,  and  then  you'll  never  trouble  to  climb  the 
fence." 

Eobert's  surprise  was  overwhelming.  "  I  thought  you'd 
be  glad,  you  above  all  others,"  he  stammered.  "  Why,  it 
was  you  that  inspired  me !  " 

She  dropped  her  basket  and  came  to  him  with  both 


NEW  YORK  119 

hands  outstretched,  all  hardness,  all  irony  gone.  "  We're 
good  friends  wherever  you  are,  Robert."  Her  clear  eyes 
dropped;  her  mobile  features  quivering  in  the  dappled 
sunlight  of  the  arbor  were  instinct  with  warm  grace.  Sud- 
denly he  realized  (then  and  then  only)  that  she  was  very 
young  after  all;  that  she  was  beautiful;  that  she  could 
stir  as  well  as  inspire.  "  I  never  understood,"  she  said, 
"  how  much  the  old  times  meant.  Don't  let  it  be  all  books 
and  pictures,  Robert  Roberts !  " 

She  was  always  enigmatic ;  but  this  time  he  understood. 

Cousin  Jenny  left  no  doubt  as  to  her  meaning,  and  yet 
she  was  harder  to  understand.  There  was  a  flurry  of 
cousins  at  her  house  the  night  before  he  left,  the  women 
vaguely  congratulatory,  the  men  frankly  dubious  of  an 
adventure  into  the  world  in  which  money  had  no  part,  and 
whose  aim  (for  he  had  merely  said  that  was  seeking 
further  study  in  a  graduate  school)  was  not  visible.  "  Go- 
in'  to  be  a  doctor  ?  A  lawyer  ?  A  —  a  minister  ?  "  asked 
Cousin  Jim.  When  Robert  answered  shyly  that  he  wanted 
to  learn  more  before  he  began  to  work,  they  shuffled  their 
feet  uneasily  and  changed  the  subject. 

Cousin  Jenny  waited  until  the  door  was  shut  upon  the 
last  of  them,  and  his  mother  had  gone  to  bed ;  then  cornered 
him  by  the  tall  clock,  pinched  his  chin  as  she  always  did, 
and  sounded  the  challenge. 

"  So  thee  thinks  thee'll  be  a  great  author  —  in  New 
York." 

"  I  can't  be  any  kind  of  an  author  —  here,"  Robert 
flung  back  resentfully.  Family  suspicion  had  gotten  on 
his  nerves. 

Somewhat  to  his  surprise,  Cousin  Jenny  passed  over  the 
inference.  "  Thy  great-uncle  wrote  poetry,  beautiful  po- 
etry," she  remarked  thoughtfully. 

He  had  read  his  great-uncle's  poetry.     It  was  atrocious. 


120  OUK  HOUSE 

For  the  first  time  he  felt  superior  to  Cousin  Jenny,  and 
the  pleasing  vanity  encouraged  him  to  a  frankness  he  had 
never  before  practiced. 

"  Look  here,  Cousin  Jenny.  Nobody  thinks  down  here. 
Nobody  tries  to  keep  up  with  the  world.  Nobody  cares 
much  about  anything  but  business,  or  having  a  good  time, 
—  or  family  affairs.  Can't  thee  see  I  have  to  get  out  in 
order  to  find  myself  ?  The  things  I  want  to  do,  I  couldn't 
do  in  Millingtown,  even  if  I  knew  I  had  the  ability, — 
and  that  I've  never  yet  found  out." 

She  nodded  her  wise  old  head.  "  Thee'll  find  doing 
isn't  everything,  Robert.  I'm  not  afraid;  thee'll  come 
back." 

Curious  that  she  should  talk  so  like  Johnny  Bolt! 
"  Dost  thee  think  I  ought  to  give  up  working,  and  just 
experiment  with  living  ?  "  he  asked  mischievously. 

M  Did  any  boy  in  his  twenties  ever  do  anything  else !  " 
she  cried.  "  Go  'long  with  thee,  and  when  thee's  done 
playing,  come  home." 

That  was  his  real  farewell  to  Millingtown;  and  as  he 
brooded  over  it,  and  the  unwonted  tenderness  of  Mary 
Sharpe,  he  began  to  understand  that  you  never  left  your 
past  behind:  that  you  were  never  really  free.  Nor  did 
you  desire  perfect  liberty,  once  it  seemed  within  the  grasp. 
Katherine  had  no  part  in  his  leavetaking,  for  she  had 
gone  back  to  Maryland.  She  too  had  released  him  that 
he  might  be  free  to  meet  the  world  as  it  was.  And  yet  he 
felt  nearer  to  her  than  ever.  Something  bound  them. 
They  must  separate,  but  he  could  not,  would  not  let  her  go. 

Nevertheless,  Millingtown  sank  into  dreamlike  unreal- 
ity, once  he  was  well  embarked  in  New  York.  There  are 
phases  of  consciousness  in  the  normal  individual  as  sharply 
differentiated  as  the  dual  personalities  of  the  abnormal. 
When  Eobert  unpacked  his  trunk  in  a  little  room  of  the 


NEW  YOEK  121 

house  on  Washington  Square  where  Johnny  lived,  and 
had  first  walked  out  into  the  crowded  street  with  a  sense 
of  being  in  residence,  here,  in  New  York,  he  stepped  into 
a  new  existence, —  stripped,  as  it  were,  to  his  personality, 
and  began  life  again  with  all  the  keen  sensibility  of  com- 
mencing experience.  In  a  week,  Millingtown  was  a  be- 
loved memory,  incapable,  for  the  present,  of  touching  his 
career. 

He  ate  with  Johnny  at  a  French  restaurant  down  one 
flight,  amid  a  shifting  population  of  unfailing  variety  and 
occasional  charm.  His  room  cost  him  three  dollars  a 
week,  his  board  (in  those  happier  days)  five.  There  was 
his  four  hundred  of  income  absorbed  in  a  whiff;  but  he 
found  no  difficulty  in  supplying  what  little  more  was 
needed.  A  college  degree  might  indicate  little  knowledge 
from  Johnny's  viewpoint,  but  at  least  it  guaranteed  a  job 
at  the  old,  old  makeshift  of  indigent  scholars.  With  a 
recommendation  from  the  Dean  of  his  college  and  a  judi- 
cious advertisement  he  hooked  enough  tutoring  to  raise  his 
income  by  ten  dollars  a  week.  Here  was  sufficient  for  the 
plain  food  of  life  and  what  he  must  have  in  addition  of  its 
sauce.  There  was  only  the  temptation  of  Johnny's  luxuri- 
ous tastes  to  be  resisted ;  —  but  that  was  an  old  difficulty, 
solved  once  before  at  college.  Life,  in  short,  was  simple, 
crowded,  good.  It  was  in  work  that  he  found  his  first 
romance. 


CHAPTER  III 

SEARCH    AND    RESEARCH 

ON  a  Tuesday  morning,  in  the  middle  of  October,  1898, 
he  seated  himself  at  last  before  his  table  desk  in  his 
little  room,  cleared  for  action.  Action!  He  had  never 
felt  so  mazed,  so  helpless,  so  futile,  not  even  on  the  first 
day  in  the  office.  The  table  quivered  to  the  roar  of  pass- 
ing trains  on  the  Elevated,  the  note-sheet  before  him  glared 
with  emptiness,  the  Evil  One  in  the  print  he  had  brought 
from  home,  writhed  on  the  wall  above  his  eyes.  How 
should  he  start  ?  It  was  well  enough  to  go  up  to  the  Uni- 
versity, saying  "  I  want  a  course."  They  would  say,  "  In 
what  ? "  And  how  should  he  answer  them.  His  brain 
sought  about  for  some  door  in  the  blank  wall  before  him, 
and  was  baffled.  Business,  the  professions  —  so  he 
thought  —  all  were  organized.  A  man  knew  at  least  how 
to  begin  upon  them.  But  when  one  desired  merely  know- 
ing,—  it  seemed  an  uncharted  sea. 

Native  common  sense  came  to  his  rescue.  In  business 
one  learned  what  had  to  be  done,  then  how  to  do  it.  So 
here.  With  meticulous  accuracy  he  drew  a  square  on  his 
note  sheet.  It  was  always  easier  to  think  graphically. 
That  would  represent  one  foundation  stone  —  knowledge. 
The  other  would  be  experience  —  which  could  wait.  And 
on  top  would  go  accomplishment.  In  the  square  he  wrote 
the  names  of  the  subjects  he  wished  most  to  know,  or  know 
better :  —  literature,  sociology,  history, —  he  got  that  far 
and  hesitated.  Psychology  or  philosophy  ?  He  could  not 
study  everything  in  a  year ! 

122 


SEAKCH  AND  EESEAECH  123 

From  the  hall  below  Johnny  Bolt's  cracked  voice  rose, 
singing: 

"  O  infidel  know 
You  have  trod  on  the  toe 
Of  Abdul  de  Bulbul  Ameer,"— 

as  he  trailed  toward  his  bath. 

"  Hi,  Johnny/'  he  called,  "  come  up."  And  when  he 
came,  bleary-eyed  from  sleep,  wrapped  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  Bobert  read  him  his  curriculum. 

But  Johnny  refused  assistance.  "  I  am  a  scholar  for 
the  sake  of  knowledge,"  he  declaimed,  one  hand  thrust 
in  the  breast  of  his  flowing  robes.  a  All  knowledge  is  my 
province.  Study  is  an  end  in  itself.  The  erudite  re- 
marks of  the  Germans  upon  the  back  doors  of  the  Pyramids 
are  to  me  as  worthy  as  the  science  of  modern  society.  You 
are  merely  a  passer-by  through  the  realm  of  learning, 
picking  up  a  few  gold-bricks  to  sell  later  to  the  American 
public.     I  am  a  dweller  in  the  vita  contemplativa." 

"  You're  a  dweller  in  the  courts  of  laziness,"  Bobert 
retorted  morosely,  and  trod  on  his  bare  toes  to  get  atten- 
tion. "  Which  would  you  choose,  psychology  or  phil- 
osophy ?  " 

"  To  your  virgin  ignorance,  I  should  think  it  would 
make  little  difference." 

"  Oh,  what's  the  use  of  expecting  you  to  help  me !  " 

"  What  is  the  use,"  Johnny  assented  cheerfully.  "  I'm 
the  tack  in  your  chair-bottom,  not  your  spiritual  director. 
When  you  know  enough  I'll  consent  to  argue  with  you. 
Until  then  — 

"  And  the  name  that  she  murmured 
Most  oft  in  her  sleep, 
Was  Ivan  Petrosky  Skivar." 

"  I'm  in  for  it,"  thought  Bobert  Boberts,  staring  blankly 


124  OUE  HOUSE 

at  his  square.  "  I'll  have  to  see  this  through  alone.  Well, 
I  chose  to  do  it."  And  then  a  comforting  thought  came 
to  him.  Every  man  who  tried  to  find  himself  must  strike 
out  blindly  like  a  swimmer  by  night  in  a  reedy  pool.  Only 
conformable  people  who  knew  what  to  do  from  the  begin- 
ning, and  unhappy  men  like  his  father  who  followed  the 
signals  their  neighborhood  set  for  them,  found  their  course 
clear  and  definite,  even  when  painful  and  tragic  at  the 
end.  "  I  suppose  you  have  to  waste  some  time  in  order 
to  save  any,  like  losing  your  life  in  the  Christian  sense  in 
order  to  save  it."  But  pessimism  underlay  his  cheerful- 
ness. He  wondered  if  he  could  stick  at  books  in  this  dingy 
room  while  life  was  surging  ahead  everywhere  without. 
A  vision  of  the  Brandywine  flowing  excitedly  downward 
around  swift  curvings  to  adventurous,  amorous  events  be- 
low, disturbed  him  more  than  his  speculations.  "  Do 
you  have  to  step  out  of  life  in  order  to  understand  it  % " 
And  then  he  tired  of  metaphysics,  crumpled  up  his  note 
sheet,  and  hurried  up  town  to  the  University.  Entering 
the  office  of  the  Dean  of  the  Graduate  School,  he  regis- 
tered for  his  mind's  rebirth. 

At  first  his  re-creation  was  companioned  by  such  pains 
as  accompany  the  birth  of  the  body.  He  was  aquiver  with 
antagonisms  and  reluctances.  In  college  he  had  been 
content  to  be  taught.  Now  that  his  will  took  part  in  the 
struggle,  he  found  that  learning  was  as  personal  as  living. 
In  every  one  of  his  graduate  classes  the  emphasis  was 
upon  careful,  minute  research.  The  old  lectures  full  of 
generalization  and  inspiration  were  excluded.  Every- 
where he  felt  himself  being  marched  solemnly,  a  little 
tediously,  away  from  life  and  emotion  into  a  misty  region 
of  minute  experiment  and  trivial  fact.  Only  in  sociology 
did  he  get  broader  vistas,  and  these  were  disturbing,  for 
they  awoke  a  remote  something  in  his  mind  that  stirred, 


SEAKCH  AND  EESEAKCH  125 

and  irritated,  and  attacked  the  conventions  upon  which 
his  life  had  been  built.  Ten  years  later  he  would  have 
called  it  a  social  conscience.  After  its  first  remonstrances, 
he  never  again  felt  comfortably  certain  of  the  privileges 
of  his  caste.  In  literature,  scientific  scholarship,  as  it  was 
then  conducted,  went  at  first  wide  of  his  head.  He  did 
the  tasks  assigned  him  and  forgot  them.  Meanwhile  he 
read  voluminously,  making  himself  drunk  with  the  music 
of  seventeenth  century  prose,  exploring  passionately  the 
intricacies  of  modern  lyric  verse,  thrilling  with  delight 
over  the  cool  lucidity  of  Daudet  and  Maupassant,  the  rich 
clear  vigor  of  Hazlitt,  the  full  expressiveness  of  Pater. 
He  grew  critical  of  his  taste  for  the  purple  patches  of  the 
Elizabethans,  and  the  broad  flow  of  Tennyson.  He  grew 
keener  in  his  ability  to  trace  and  seize  upon  the  fugitive 
emotion,  the  hidden  thought;  but  the  more  he  read,  the 
more  empty  was  his  mind,  the  more  hopeless  he  became  of 
writing  himself.  It  was  not  that  everything  seemed  to 
have  been  written.  Eather,  he,  who  craved  so  much  from 
others,  had  no  desire  to  write.  Appreciations  he  would 
have  done  gladly,  but  for  that  he  knew  himself  as  yet  in- 
competent. Eor  life,  the  life  about  him,  he  had  not  a 
word. 

Strangely  enough,  it  was  in  the  subject  which  touched 
him  least  that  the  battle  was  fought,  and  won,  and  then 
lost  for  scholarship.  History  for  Eobert  Eoberts  had  been 
an  adjunct  to  the  imagination,  filling  the  mind  with  vast 
dim  pictures,  or  convenient  generalizations  useful  in  ex- 
plaining the  present  by  the  past.  But  in  his  class  in  the 
graduate  school  they  fed  him  with  facts  only, —  minute, 
petty  facts.  And  when  it  came  his  turn  to  work  upon  a 
problem,  they  gave  him  —  not  the  study  of  the  Puritan 
spirit  in  American  institutions  for  which  he  had  asked, 
or  the  history  of  American  Quakerism  that  was  his  second 


126  OUR  HOUSE 

choice  (how  he  laughed  at  those  voluminous  subjects  three 
months  later),  but  instead,  the  composition  of  Buchanan's 
majority  in  the  election  of  1856 ! 

After  class  he  flooded  over  to  the  man  nearest,  a  dry 
thin  German  who  sat  below  in  the  hall.  They  did  not 
highly  attract  Eobert  Eoberts  —  these  graduate  students. 
Some  were  coldly  superior  individuals  with  an  ascetic  look, 
who  seemed  to  be  inflicted  with  a  constant  indigestion  of 
the  brain  that  made  them  irritable  toward  their  fellow 
men  and  hungry,  with  an  unhealthy  hunger,  for  knowl- 
edge. Others  —  and  among  them  most  of  the  women  — 
were  laboriously  sentimental,  filling  vast  note-books  with 
everything  uttered  in  the  classroom,  tremendously  intense 
in  their  questions,  living  in  an  atmosphere  of  super-in- 
tellectuality which  they  could  endure  only  by  an  emotional 
effort  that  taxed  their  strength.  The  first  group  irritated 
Eobert;  the  second  made  him  nervous.  Among  their  ex- 
cited chirpings  after  class,  he  felt  like  a  common  soldier 
in  a  mediaeval  convent  of  ecstatic  nuns. 

The  German  was  a  relief.  To  begin  with,  Krauss  took 
his  higher  instruction  as  a  matter  of  course.  It  was  food 
for  him,  not  a  drug.  His  notes  were  full  but  never  fever- 
ish ;  and  without  being  dogmatic  he  managed  to  be  health- 
ily critical  of  all  that  he  heard.  Then  he  had  person- 
ality. When  he  grew  excited,  he  waved  his  hand,  stiff- 
fingered,  across  his  desk.  If  he  were  contradicted  he 
would  clench  his  fist.  Eobert  was  first  attracted  to  him 
by  his  habit  of  frowning  whenever  the  professor  chose  gen- 
eralization rather  than  fact.  They  walked  together  across 
the  campus  in  the  brown  dusk  of  a  December  afternoon. 
After  the  grill  of  the  classroom,  Eobert  needed  horizons, 
vistas, —  his  brain  was  choking.  But  all  he  said  was, 
"  They  hold  us  down,  don't  they !     You  heard  my  topic !  " 

The  German  looked  at  him,  puzzled.     "  It  is  a  good 


SEARCH  AND  RESEARCH  127 

topic,  is  it  not  ?  "  His  foreign  birth  showed  itself  not  so 
much  in  accent  as  in  choice  of  phrase.  "  Too  broad  per- 
haps, but  needing  investigation." 

"  Too  broad !  "  Robert  exploded.  "  Who  cares  about 
Buchanan's  majority !     Not  I !     Not  anybody !  " 

Krauss  stiffened.  "  What  difference  does  that  make !  " 
he  cried  heatedly,  then  looked  at  the  boy's  glowing  face, 
shrugged,  and  dropped  into  irony.  "  You  are  an  '  old 
American,'  are  you  not  ?  Well,  then,  you  will  never  un- 
derstand." 

Robert  looked  at  him  curiously.  His  clothes  denoted 
moderate  poverty.  His  air  was  defensive  as  if  expecting 
a  snub,  and  yet  offensive,  sneering  also.  Nevertheless  he 
was  quivering  with  some  very  genuine  emotion.  His  dark 
eyes,  and  thin  scholar's  mouth  showed  it.  "  The  fellow's 
worth  while,"  he  thought,  a  little  patronizingly.  "  I  won- 
der what  Johnny  would  make  of  him  ?  "  "  Won't  you 
come  down  and  dine  with  me?"  he  asked  suddenly. 
"  We'll  talk  it  over,  and  you  can  see." 

They  dined  with  Johnny  at  the  French  Restaurant  off 
Washington  Square.  At  first  it  was  stiff  going.  Johnny's 
savoir  faire,  his  clothes,  his  persiflage  sealed  the  German's 
lips.  What  he  said  was  gauche;  he  ate  with  effort,  and 
spilled  his  beer.  Only  when  Johnny,  full-fed  and  content, 
launched  upon  his  daily  hour  of  philosophy,  did  his  mind 
emerge  from  sheathings  of  self-distrust  and  begin  to  dis- 
play its  power. 

"  You  fellows  who  know  all  histories,  interpret  that  for 
me,"  said  Johnny,  waving  his  cigarette  toward  a  fat  and 
shining  Italian  engaged  in  pouring  Chianti  for  a  girl, 
evidently  Irish,  who  beamed  at  him  above  her  upturned 
nose.  "  They're  married  —  I've  deduced  that.  Now, 
will  their  children  be   Americans  ? " 

Robert  and  Krauss  spoke  together. 


128  OUR  HOUSE 

u  Irish/7  laughed  Robert. 

"  Study  the  fifth,  century  in  Gaul  if  you  would  find 
out,"  murmured  Krauss. 

Johnny 'turned  to  him  with  awakened  interest.  "  What 
y'  mean  \  "  he  asked  sharply.     "  How  d'you  know  I  n 

"  I  do  not  know/'  Krauss  answered  stiffly.  "  1  said 
that  there  I  should  study,  in  order  to  get  what  information 
history  might  give." 

"  Why  not  wait  until  the  children  arrive/'  Robert  con- 
tributed lazily.  "  You  can  see  by  the  way  she  acts  that 
they  haven't  been  married  a  month." 

"  Aeh,  there  it  is  again,  as  this  afternoon  with  you," 
Krauss  cried  scornfully.  "  Americans  will  always  wait 
and  see.  They  are  too  lazy  to  seek  the  facts.  They 
would  rather  guess  than  know." 

"  Can  you  make  that  good?"  asked  Johnny  noncha- 
lantly. 

"  Make  it  good  ?  Oh,  prove  it,  you  mean.  Easily,  my 
friend.  If  you  would  have  it  general,  see  this  city  about 
us,  badly-run,  dirty,  unhealthy,  costly,  because  people  do 
not  try  to  know  how  a  city  should  be  governed.  You 
should  see  the  new  Berlin !  Or  if  personal,"  he  hesitated, 
then  drove  on  ironically,  "  here  is  my  fellow  student  Rob- 
erts, who  complains  to  me  because  he  is  set  a  little  task  in 
facts.  He  desires  to  take  the  colossal  problems  in  history, 
and  perhaps  guess  about  them.  But  when  they  ask  him  to 
search  for  a  little,  little  fact,  he  grows  angry.  Is  it  not 
so  ? "  He  smiled  expansively  upon  Robert.  "  He  has 
more  brains  doubtless  than  I  have,  but  they  are  lazy 
brains." 

Robert  was  cross.  "  Lazy  nothing,"  he  blurted.  "  I'm 
willing  enough  to  work  at  anything  I  see  the  use  of.  But 
just  how  many  voted  for  Buchanan  in  Clay  County,  North 


SEAECH  AND  RESEAKCH  129 

Carolina  —  that's  about  my  problem  —  seems  to  me  of  no 
earthly  value." 

"  Make  that  good.  Make  it  good,  my  boy,"  urged 
Johnny.     "  It's  up  to  you." 

"  Make  it  good !  Why  do  I  need  to !  Who  cares  ? 
What  use  can  such  knowledge  ever  be  ?     Why  — " 

Krauss  burst  in  upon  him.  "  The  use  is  to  make  the 
blind  see,"  he  cried.  "  No  one  may  care  about  your  prob- 
lem ;  but  that  you  should  have  learned,  you,  an  '  old  Ameri- 
can/ to  go  to  the  bottom  of  some  one  little  problem,  for 
facts,  that  is  of  some  use.  That  is  worth  while.  The 
miseries  of  the  world  have  come  because  men  have  not 
known  how  to  avoid  them.  Now  science  has  given  us  a 
means  to  know,  if  we  will  use  it.  But  there  is  only  one 
way  to  learn,  and  that  you  despise.  Ach!  I  give  you 
up,  you  Americans !  " 

Robert  lost  his  temper.  Underneath,  he  realized  that  it 
was  prejudice  against  this  shabby,  ill-mannered  foreigner, 
who  scorned  mere  Americans,  that  moved  him,  but  he  put 
his  anger  upon  nobler  grounds.  "  Well,  we've  done  a  few 
things,  we  '  old  Americans,'  "  he  sputtered,  "  even  if  we 
are  just  guessers.  We  guessed  right  in  the  Civil  War, 
didn't  we  ?  And  the  development  of  the  West  ?  And  in 
our  manufacturing?  And  even  in  this  little  Spanish 
fracas  ?     Didn't  we  ?  " 

Krauss  felt  the  prejudice  behind  the  tones  and  resented 
it.  "  Yes,  you  guessed  right  then,"  he  lashed  back. 
"  With  a  vast  rich  country  to  work  with,  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult. But  you  will  not  always  guess  right,  unless,"  his 
eyes  gleamed  with  prophetic  luster,  "  we  new  Americans 
teach  you.  Kipling  was  wrong.  It  is  not  your  sense 
of  humor,  which  I  do  not  understand,  but  us  who  will  save 
you  in  the  end !  " 


130  OUR  HOUSE 

Robert's  gorge  rose.  He  buried  his  face  in  his  stein  to 
hide  its  disgust  and  anger.     Johnny  spoke  quietly. 

"  Mr.  Krauss,  I'm  an  '  old  American,'  and  though  I 
think  you  are  a  little  too  emphatic  perhaps,  on  the  whole 
I  agree  with  you.  This  nation  was  built  on  luck,  brought 
up  on  guessing,  and  now  it  doesn't  know  a  fact  from  a 
hole  in  the  ground  until  it  falls  over  it.  But  I  doubt  if 
you  can  teach  us.  We're  too  comfortable  yet  to  learn. 
I  won't  learn.  Bob  may.  He  has  a  conscience.  For 
heaven's  sake,  teach  him  if  you  can !  " 

Robert  stared  at  him  in  dismay.  There  was  no  doubt 
that  Johnny  was  in  earnest.  He  was  intensely  in  earnest. 
And  by  the  law  of  human  nature  which  determines  that 
emotion  moves  us  where  reason  is  helpless,  Johnny's  con- 
viction stirred  Robert  as  Krauss'  words  never  could. 
There  was  something  in  the  German  argument  —  to  get 
to  the  bottom  of  a  problem  would  be  a  new  experience, 
probably  a  useful  one.  After  all,  a  few  facts  could  not 
shake  the  fabric  of  his  dreams  —  unless  they  were  dreams 
only. 

"  Look  here,  fellows,"  he  said  sweetly,  "  I  don't  admit 
you're  altogether  right.  Those  chaps  up  at  the  Univer- 
sity who  have  spent  their  years  in  digging  facts  seem  to 
me  to  have  gotten  fearfully  short-sighted.  The  theory  is 
all  right,  but  in  practice,  when  they  get  their  facts  they 
don't  seem  to  be  able  to  make  use  of  them. — "  Krauss 
started  to  interrupt  him.  "  Just  a  moment.  But  I  ad- 
mit your  personal  reference.  I've  been  a  good  deal  of  a 
theorizer,  myself.  Krauss,  I  believe  I'll  go  in  hard  for 
that  Buchanan  majority,  and  see  how  I  feel  when  I'm 
through.  Perhaps  I'll  get  the  habit  of  knowing  what 
I'm  talking  about." 

Krauss  mellowed  instantly.  "  If  you  get  the  habit,  my 
friend,"  he  murmured,  seizing  Robert's  hand,  "  a  new 


SEARCH  AND  RESEARCH  131 

man  may  be  the  result."  He  spoke  with  such  portentous 
solemnity  that  Johnny  and  Rob  burst  into  laughter. 

"  Here's  to  Robert  Redivivus,"  Johnny  caroled. 
"  And  now,  Mr.  Krauss,  it's  early  yet.  Would  you  mind 
telling  me  just  what  is  a  fact  ?  " 

The  graduate  student,  so  right  on  his  own  ground,  so 
much  more  modern  than  Johnny,  whose  pagan  soul 
wrestled  unavailingly  with  the  brute  realities  of  a  hurry- 
ing age,  was  helpless  in  the  clutch  of  this  terrible  ques- 
tion. He  writhed,  but  Johnny  would  not  let  him  go. 
He  fell,  confused  by  the  rapid  fire  of  wit,  and  confounded 
by  metaphysics;  but  Robert's  resolution  did  not  fall  with 
its  champion.  Throughout  the  evening  he  sat  a  little 
withdrawn,  a  little  tense,  reflecting  upon  the  vagueness 
of  his  mental  habits  as  illustrated  by  everything,  it 
seemed,  that  had  happened  in  his  life.  As  he  thought,  a 
craving  for  exact  knowledge,  anywhere,  of  any  kind,  de- 
tached itself  from  his  mind  and  went  tingling  through  his 
blood.  "  I'm  going  to  bed,"  he  interjected  in  the  midst 
of  the  arguments ;  and  when  Johnny  stared  at  him  in  as- 
tonishment. "  Full  day,  to-morrow.  Good-night.  Come 
again,  Krauss,"  he  mumbled,  and  was  off. 

"  His  name  is  rocket,"  remarked  Johnny  to  the  table 
generally.  "Apply  the  punk,  and  then  snatch  your  fin- 
gers away,  or  you'll  get  burnt.  He's  pointed  any  old  way, 
and  before  he  gets  there  he'll  probably  burst.  Then  pick 
up  the  stick  and  start  him  over  again.  Of  course,"  he  re- 
turned to  Krauss,  "  you  didn't  know  what  you  were  light- 
ing !     Now  —  as  to  your  idea  of  fact  — " 

"  Your  friend  is  a  fact,"  said  Krauss  darkly,  "  that  I 
do  not  altogether  comprehend.  He  has  graduated  from 
college,  and  yet  see,  he  is  just  beginning  to  learn." 

"  He  chose  experience  first,"  Johnny  answered. 
"  That's  part  of  the  equation,  you  know.     And  he's  got 


132  OUR  HOUSE 

the  stuff  all  right  —  in  his  brain,  I  mean.  If  only  his 
cousins  and  his  aunts  would  let  him  get  through  to  find  it." 

"  You  are  talking  in  slang  ?  "  asked  the  German  stiffly. 

"  No,  just  guessing  again  —  American  fashion.  I  told 
you  I  was  incurable/ f  said  Johnny  Bolt. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    ROCKET 

THE  winter  was  persistent,  buffeting  with  snow,  shroud- 
ing with  gray,  freezing  mists  that  dimmed  the  shop 
windows  and  dulled  the  faces  of  hurrying  passers-by. 
Or  were  the  cold  mists  spiritual  veils  let  down  between 
Robert  Roberts'  brain  and  the  outer  world?  It  was  in 
the  university  library  before  his  half-circle  of  books  and 
over  his  spread  note-sheets  that  he  was  most  alive ;  at  home 
in  his  room,  or  with  Johnny  in  the  night  life  of  the  city, 
he  was  vague,  cold,  inattentive.  One  evening,  on  the  verge 
of  boredom,  that  terror,  Johnny  turned  upon  him  mo- 
rosely. "  I'd  as  leave  walk  the  streets  with  a  slot  machine 
as  with  you,"  he  grumbled.  "  And  I'd  far  rather  be  the 
pencil  man."  He  pointed  at  the  familiar  figure  with  the 
battered  derby  and  tangled  beard  who  day  by  day  sat  on 
the  bench  in  their  square  with  a  row  of  red  pencils  canted 
from  his  hand.  "  That  old  chap  sees  the  world  go  by 
through  his  dark  glasses  and  enjoys  it.  I've  watched 
him  smile.  You  study  all  history  and  get  grouchier  every 
day.     What's  the  use  of  it  all !  " 

For  the  first  time  Robert  Roberts  was  concentrating. 
His  experiment  in  research,  hastily  entered  upon,  labor- 
iously carried  forward,  had  become  a  drug  that  narrowed 
and  intensified  his  perceptions  of  experience.  At  night, 
when  he  woke  to  the  beat  of  the  wind  and  the  patter  of  snow 
on  his  windows,  he  would  remember,  with  sudden  vivid- 
ness, childhood  and  the  warm  protection  of  our  house, 
and  be  amazed  at  the  life  he  was  leading.     On  February 

133 


134:  OUR  HOUSE 

afternoons,  when  from  some  height  above  the  river  he  saw 
to  the  westward  black  woods  against  skies  of  beryl,  he 
would  cry  out  against  the  tyranny  of  his  intellect,  and 
long  to  feel  for  an  instant, —  for  an  instant  only  to  feel 
and  not  to  think.  Yet  actually  he  was  feeling  intensely, 
keenly,  but  in  a  new  way.  The  fascination  of  searching 
for  truth  had  gripped  his  imagination.  Sometimes  he 
thought  it  that  passion  for  scholarship  for  which  all  about 
him  were  praying.     Was  he  right  1 

American  history,  just  then,  was  being  reconstructed  by 
scholars  trained  in  French  and  German  schools.  Robert's 
Buchanan  problem  ended  in  disgust.  The  job  had  been 
done  before.  They  had  not  trusted  him  with  original 
work.  But  he  carried  it  through  so  handsomely  that  the 
professor  who  conducted  the  seminar  began  to  be  inter- 
ested in  this  slender,  boyish  enthusiast  who  at  first  had 
seemed  too  impulsive,  too  wastef ully  imaginative  for  scien- 
tific scholarship.  In  the  next  assignment,  he  was  pre- 
sented with  the  choicest  egg  in  the  basket,  a  tiny  little  eggy 
to  be  sure,  dull  of  color,  and  probably  meatless ;  but  an  egg 
that  had  never  been  cracked.  "  No  one  has  ever  examined 
the  contemporary  newspapers  in  order  to  discover  just  how 
the  abolitionists  in  Kansas  regarded  Lincoln  before  he  be- 
came a  candidate  for  president.  Mr.  Roberts,  take  that, 
will  you  ?  Report  in  six  weeks."  Krauss  was  jealous. 
His  lips  showed  it.  And  Robert,  who  in  November  would 
have  turned  up  his  nose  at  such  research  among  potato- 
peelings,  was  flattered.  He  fell  to  work,  and  labored 
prodigiously. 

Now  and  then,  while  a  library  boy  had  gone  in  search 
of  another  file  of  dusty  newspapers,  or  a  moment's  weari- 
ness swept  over  and  relaxed  his  brain,  he  would  say  to  him- 
self that  the  history  upon  which  he  was  specializing  might 
equally  well  have  been  physiology,  or  Greek  —  it  repre- 


THE  ROCKET  135 

sented  a  discipline  merely.  Was  that  true?  He  could 
not  pause  to  answer.  On  the  other  side  of  these  labors 
must  lie  some  firm  land,  though  terra  incognita.  When  he 
reached  shore,  then  and  no  sooner  would  he  think  out  his 
life. 

Johnny  watched  him  with  distrust,  with  dismay,  and 
finally  with  envy.  He  would  drift  up  to  Robert's  room 
after  dinner  and  smoke  cigarette  after  cigarette  in  silence, 
while  Robert's  nimble  fingers  flew  over  his  note-sheets. 
"  You  have  will  all  right,  Rob,"  he  remarked  with  a  sigh ; 
"  I  wonder  if  you've  got  sense !  "  But  Robert  with  a  re- 
turn of  his  old  self-doubt  protested  the  compliment;  and 
this  time  he  was  surely  right.  He  was  not  driving ;  he  was 
being  driven.  The  glamour  of  facts  was  upon  him.  He 
was  drunk  with  the  intoxication  of  concentrated,  con- 
genial work. 

All  his  senses  but  one  numbed  in  the  process.  When 
he  went  home  for  Christmas  he  was  absent-minded,  cold, 
unsatisfactory.  On  Christmas  morning  he  forgot  to  kiss 
his  mother.  Cousin  Jenny  boxed  his  ears  for  it,  and 
shook  him.  Katherine  Gray  was  there.  He  called  upon 
her,  and  talked  shop !  Talked  dully,  persistently  against 
her  radiant  presence  that  shed  laughter  on  him,  and  then, 
when  he  would  not  yield,  dimmed  into  hurt  coldness  and 
yearning  regret.  He  called  upon  Mary  Sharpe  in  the 
same  evening,  and  came  home  to  work.  Until  he  was 
back  again  in  the  library  before  his  books,  his  mind  was 
an  idly  swinging  flywheel. 

Daily  the  pale,  dominating  face  of  Krauss,  who  shared 
his  library  desk,  gained  power  over  him.  The  German's 
industry  was  an  urge  in  the  daytime  and  a  reproach  at 
night.  His  encyclopedic  knowledge  made  Robert's  educa- 
tion seem  a  sham.  His  uncanny  power  of  going  straight 
through  all  doubt  and  qualification  to  the  fact  itself,  awed 


136  OUR  HOUSE 

him.  It  attacked  his  self-respect.  The  thing-not-there, 
the  hope-yet-to-come,  which  had  been  the  impelling  forces 
of  his  work  in  Millingtown,  paled,  wavered,  sank  in  the 
dry  light  of  a  mind  that  lived  by  exact  science. 

Sometimes  he  rebelled,  as  when  once  the  short  sledge 
drives  of  Lincoln's  sentences  roused  him  into  incautious 
murmurings  above  the  low  hum  of  the  library.  "  Just 
feel  the  personality  behind  this,  Krauss !  "  he  said,  reading 
aloud ;  and  then,  "  You  can't  analyze  personality !  " 

Like  a  piston  stroke  the  German  was  down  upon  him. 
"  Why  not  ?  Why  not  ?  Perhaps  you  cannot.  But  there 
is  nothing  in  a  man  that  is  not  the  product  of  perfectly 
definite  forces.  When  you  know  them  all  you  can  formu- 
late him,  like  a  hydrocarbon.  It  is  difficult,  but,"  he 
shrugged — "  man  is  only  a  compound." 

Eobert  was  deeply  stirred.  What  do  you  know  of  per- 
sonality, was  on  his  lips.  But  he  was  humbler  now. 
"  I  don't  believe  that  life  is  as  mechanistic  as  all  that,"  he 
murmured  stubbornly. 

Krauss  shrugged  again.  "  You  don't  believe  it.  But 
do  you  know?  Have  you  considered  everything  to  be 
learned  of  Lincoln's  life  I  Have  you,  for  example,  consid- 
ered the  character  and  the  life  of  his  mother  ?  There,  you 
see,  you  do  not  know  all.  And  yet  you  say  his  personality 
is  inexplicable !  " 

Krauss  was  annoying.  Sometimes  he  almost  hated  him. 
Nevertheless,  Robert  had  to  admit  that  he  did  not  know  all, 
not  even  about  his  very  simplest  problem.  That  was  the 
goad  that  drove  him  forward.  But  it  was  not  a  painful 
driving.  He  began  to  understand  these  quiet,  tense  profes- 
sors who  warmed  to  enthusiasm  only  over  their  "  Fach," 
and  seemed  insulated  from  roaring,  thoughtless  New  York. 
Their  calm  intensity  began  to  fascinate  him  as  the  monas- 
tery fascinated  the  mediaeval   knight.     With   them,    he 


THE  KOCKET  137 

grew  distrustful  of  the  waste  of  time  in  mere  liv- 
ing. With  them,  he  began  to  enjoy  work  as  an  end  in 
itself.  Once  or  twice  he  tried  to  proselyte  Johnny,  but  was 
met  by  ironic  arguments  that  it  did  not  seem  worth  while 
to  confute.  Nothing  except  his  new  endeavors  seemed 
worth  while.  Labor  spent  outside  his  books  he  did  not 
count  as  work.  Eor  six  months  he  sold  himself  body  and 
soul  to  research ;  and  was  happy,  if  only  half  awake. 

And  then  on  the  hall  table  one  morning  was  a  letter  from 
the  Dean  proposing  a  fellowship  to  be  granted  next  year, 
with  a  suggestion  of  a  teaching  position  to  follow  it.  Eor 
a  moment  Robert  Roberts  basked  in  the  warmth  of  the  com- 
pliment. With  a  satisfaction  not  to  be  expressed,  he  felt 
self-respect  growing,  hardening  within  his  breast.  This 
tribute  was  the  result  of  no  mere  duty  faithfully  per- 
formed for  his  family;  it  was  earned  by  work  that  he 
could  do,  and  which  engrossed  him.  Then  dismay  suc- 
ceeded pride.  Had  he  chosen  his  road?  Was  this  to  be 
his  life, —  all  of  it  ?  "  Silly  ass !  "  he  lashed  at  himself ; 
"  will  you  give  up  what  you  can  do,  for  what  you  can't !  " 
In  the  library,  where  his  books  were,  thought  came  best. 
He  hurried  up  town. 

Habit  drew  him  into  his  seat,  from  habit  he  opened  the 
volume  of  pamphlets  upon  which  he  happened  to  be  work- 
ing. Then,  with  raised  pencil,  he  began  to  think.  Could 
any  life  be  pleasanter  than  this, —  sheltered  yet  strenuous  I 
No  storms  to  fear.  No  calms  either, —  for  there  would  be 
harder  problems  to  tackle,  there  would  be  the  struggles  and 
rebuffs  of  teaching,  there  would  be  reputation  to  win  and 
to  hold.  He  saw  the  long  path  before  him,  and  liked  it. 
If  it  had  not  been  so  straight,  he  could  have  chosen  then 
and  there.  If  an  awakening  consciousness  of  other  paths, 
other  passions,  had  not  harassed  hjim,  he  could  have 
chosen. 


138  OUR  HOUSE 

Over  among  the  stacks  he  could  see  Krauss  at  work,  fin- 
gering with  his  long,  slippery  hands  book  after  book,  mur- 
muring aloud  through  opened  lips,  jotting  facts,  facts,  facts 
upon  yellow  note-sheets.  Was  it  the  yellow  sheets  that  re- 
minded him  of  Trimbill  ?  Or  the  face  lit  with  a  morbid 
enthusiasm  for  something  bigger  and  better  than  life !  He 
shuddered  uncomfortably  and  turned  to  his  work,  letting 
his  eyes  sink  comfortably  into  the  printed  pages.  Then 
without  warning,  his  brain  went  blank.  He  could  think  of 
nothing  but  scraps  and  fragments  of  poetry : 


and 


"  O  love,  couldst  thou  and  I  with  fate  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  scheme  of  things  entire," — 

"...  I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion." 


Tears  rushed  to  his  eyes  and  blinded  him.  He  flung  to 
the  book,  and  strode  out  into  the  March  sunlight,  per- 
plexed, angry, —  yet  curiously  exultant. 

The  air  was  very  soft  in  the  narrow  street  in  which 
Eobert  Eoberts  found  himself  after  twenty  minutes  of 
hurried  walking.  He  slackened  his  pace,  trying  to  make 
out  why  it  was  so  homelike  and  appealing.  Was  it  the  red 
brick  house  with  marble  steps,  sandwiched  between  the 
usual  brown-stone  fronts  ?  Life  moved  with  a  slow  rhythm 
in  that  street.  What  humorous  determination  on  the  face 
of  the  iceman  as  he  swung  a  big  block  from  the  wagon  bed 
to  the  pavement,  and  then  grinned  at  himself  approvingly. 
How  the  children  frolicked  like  motes  in  the  pale  sun- 
beams. And  those  comfortable  women  leaning  blowsily 
from  their  windows  as  if  morning  lasted  forever  and  a 
sleepy  word  now  and  then  were  enough  to  keep  the  world 
upon  its  way.     A  pigeon  dropped  from  the  narrow  sky 


THE  KOCKET  139 

above ;  one  white  and  drooping  curve.  His  mind  saw  and 
recorded  its  beauty ;  but  his  eyes  kept  to  the  children,  the 
Italians  trotting  merrily  with  their  street  piano ;  the  gro- 
cery boy  whipping  up  his  horse  to  shave  the  curb  at  the  cor- 
ner ;  the  invalid  walking  unsteadily  with  her  nurse,  dazzled 
by  the  light ;  the  messenger  boy  gaping  at  a  gigantic  police- 
man. He  felt  like  the  seventh  sleeper  of  Ephesus,  emerged 
from  his  cave. 

Half  way  up  the  block,  a  white  frame  house  in  a  garden 
had  been  caught  and  pinched  between  the  walls  of  brown- 
stone  invaders.  A  rusty  fence  of  ironwork  separated  the 
tangled  garden  from  the  sidewalk,  and  over  it,  by  the  loose- 
hung  gate,  an  enormous  forsythia  drooping  sprayed  its  yel- 
low blossoms  and  brushed  his  forehead.  He  turned  to 
pluck  a  flower,  and  started.  A  young  girl  was  standing 
beside  him,  half  hidden  by  the  branches.  He  noticed  that 
she  was  pale  and  shrinking,  and  a  little  ungainly;  then 
apologized  and  passed  on.  She  seemed  to  be  waiting  for, 
some  one. 

As  he  went,  the  picture  of  her  haggard  face,  with  some- 
thing drawn  and  expectant  lighting  it,  began  to  take  color 
in  his  brain.  She  was  out  of  tone  with  the  street.  Pre- 
tending to  have  dropped  something,  he  searched  for  an  in- 
stant, then  walked  slowly  back  toward  the  forsythia.  Life 
thrilled  him  strangely  this  morning. 

She  spoke  as  he  passed  her,  a  Can  you  tell  me  —  is  this 
Seventy-fourth  Street  ? " 

He  stopped  and  took  off  his  hat.     "  Yes." 

"  And  is  it  —  after  eleven  ?  "  She  asked  as  if  uncon- 
cerned, but  her  voice  was  hoarse  with  what  must  be 
anxiety. 

"  It's  twelve-thirty." 

She  cried  a  quick  little  "  Oh,"  then  caught  herself. 
"  Thank  you." 


140  OUE  HOUSE 

He  hesitated,  noticing  that  her  face  showed  refinement, 
though  her  dress  was  unshapely.  But  she  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  him,  and  it  seemed  best  to  leave  her.  "  Can  I 
do  anything  ?  Anything  at  all  ?  "  "  No,  no !  I'm  just 
waiting."  Suddenly  she  stepped  from  the  protection  of 
the  forsythia,  swayed  a  little,  caught  the  railing,  then  let  go 
with  an  effort.  "  I  think  I  won't  wait  any  longer,"  she 
said  pathetically.     "  Thank  you,  whoever  you  are." 

He  looked  at  her  —  and  thought  he  understood.  "  You 
are  in  trouble.     Can't  I  help  you,  somehow  %  " 

"  No,  no !  " —  But  before  she  had  gone  the  length  of  the 
fence  she  faltered,  caught  again  at  its  rusty  scroll,  then 
turned  and  beckoned  to  him.  "  Will  you  get  me  a  cab," 
she  whispered.     "I  must  go  to  a  hospital." 

As  he  hurried  off  to  the  cab-stand  her  pale,  plucky  face 
burned  and  grew  radiant  in  his  mind.  The  veils  dropped. 
He  felt  the  world  surging,  throbbing,  paining  out  beyond 
his  own  little  soul.  Helping  her  into  the  hansom,  he  took 
a  wan  courageous  smile  for  payment,  watched  her  drive 
away,  turned,  and  stooping  picked  up  a  handkerchief  from 
under  the  forsythia.  a  G.  C.  M."  It  was  crumpled  and 
tear-stained.  At  the  touch  of  its  moist  fabric  a  wave  of 
pity  softened  him.  "  Poor  kid,"  he  said.  "  She's  up 
against  it,  I  guess.     I  wish  I  could  help  her." 

A  swirl  of  children  passed  him  in  pursuit  of  distant 
music.  The  iceman  swore  cheerfully  at  the  baker's  boy. 
The  policeman  laughed  pompously  at  them  both.  How 
full  of  color,  variety,  poignancy  life  was!  He  throbbed 
with  realization.  Then  he  saw  her  eyes  again  and 
shuddered  at  their  hopelessness;  her  firm  lips  and  felt 
a  glad  thankfulness  for  the  courage  of  human  nature.  An 
unutterable  craving  to  explain,  to  interpret,  to  express, 
somehow,   this  glimpse  of  tragedy,   turned  him  giddy. 


THE  EOCKET  141 

There  was  nothing  desirable  in  the  world  except  to  put  into 
words  all  that  it  meant,  all  that  he  felt.  "  The  devil  take 
scholarship !  "  he  cried  half  aloud,  and  strode  homeward  to 
write. 


CHAPTER  V, 

MABY    DOONB 

THE  next  morning,  before  the  dew  had  left  the  shadows, 
Robert  bore  his  new  and  quivering  interest  in  human- 
ity to  the  hospital  where  the  girl  had  been  driven.  He  was 
met  by  forbidding  chilliness.  She  had  been  transferred 
elsewhere,  "  to  fit  her  case."  Her  name  was  Mary  Doone, 
—  more,  unless  he  were  a  relative,  they  could  not  tell  him. 
His  address  might  be  left  in  case  she  should  ask  for  him. 
The  white  head-dress  of  the  matron  nodded  toward  the 
door,  and  he  went.  After  all,  perhaps  it  was  just  as  well. 
He  had  no  right,  he  felt  as  he  walked  away  a  little  sadly, 
to  intrude  upon  this  mystery.  For  her  it  might  be  trag- 
edy ;  for  him,  though  ever  so  poignant,  it  was  only  a  dark 
eddy  in  life.  Later  the  tide  might  swing  her  by  his  shore 
again.  And  so,  by  fine  gradations,  and  too  readily,  he 
transmuted  her  need,  and  her  pathos,  into  art.  As  he  rode 
uptown  his  imagination  began  to  weave  about  her  a  pos- 
sible, interesting  story. 

In  the  meantime  it  was  Spring  and  there  was  new  work 
to  think  upon.  He  dashed  through  his  chores  in  the 
library,  whistling  under  his  breath  until  the  nervous  Miss 
Jenks  at  the  next  table  sent  a  call-boy  to  reprove  him.  A 
flood  of  energy  seemed  to  have  been  released  within. 
Everything  he  touched  responded  and  fell  into  place. 
Eacts  rushed  together  into  conclusions.  He  finished  his 
paper  upon  the  Kansas  abolitionists  and  looked  about  him. 

Moted  sunlight  drifted  through  the  stacks,  warming  the 

multicolored  volumes  that  everywhere  walled  him  in.     No, 

he  would  not  be  false  to  books.     They  were  the  honey  cells, 

142 


MARY  DOOMS  143 

stored  with  thought  by  the  immortal  swarm  of  human 
workers.  Having  tasted  their  combs,  he  knew  now  what 
it  was  that  sweetened  experience  and  fortified  thought. 
But  there  were  still  fields,  still  flavors  without.  With 
enormous  zest  he  flung  himself  into  what  remained  of  his 
routine  labors,  and  then,  with  a  good  conscience,  freed  his 
thoughts,  and  girded  up  his  brains  for  his  own  work. 

The  keen  March  wind  of  evening  stung  and  caressed  in 
a  breath;  the  woods  on  the  distant  bluffs  were  softening 
their  winter  purples.  Tacking  across  the  campus  toward 
the  river,  he  met  Krauss,  beating  homeward  with  an  arm- 
ful of  books,  and  tried  to  divert  his  course.  "  Come  and 
taste  the  Spring,  old  fellow." 

The  German  balanced  his  load  against  a  gateway. 
"  You  have  refused  the  fellowship  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I'm  still  respectable.  Come  on  and  take  a 
walk." 

Krauss  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  resumed  his  load. 
"  Good-by,  my  friend.     I  have  no  time  to  waste." 

"  ]STor  I,"  Robert  shouted  angrily  at  his  back ;  then 
repented  and  hurried  after  his  stooping  figure.  "  You  see, 
I  have  to  start  my  own  work  now."  But  what  was  the  use  ? 
Krauss  could  understand  no  language  but  his  own. 

That  night  Robert  Roberts  wrote  from  eight  o'clock  till 
twelve,  while  Johnny,  encouraged  by  his  geniality,  made 
forays  from  below,  orating  upon  the  thrilling  spectacle  of 
genius  at  work.  What  did  he  write  ?  It  did  not  seem  to 
matter.  If  he  could  put  just  his  day,  the  thrills  of  the 
day  into  words,  his  spirit  would  be  eased.  And  so  he 
wrote  on.  It  seemed  easy,  now  that  his  passion  for  schol- 
arship had  collapsed  without  warning,  to  add  this  to  the 
routine  of  mere  work. 

"  Here,  expectant  world,"  cried  Johnny,  filching  a  sheet 
deftly  from  over  his  shoulder,  "  is  a  foretaste  of  what  you're 


144  OUR  HOUSE 

to  get,  hot  from  the  poet's  brains."  He  read  to  an  em- 
barrassed audience  of  one : 

"  '  As  I  sat  at  my  desk  in  the  brown-gold  shadows  of  the 
library,  my  eyes  wandered,  stole,  caught ' —  which  shall  it 
be,  my  boy,  you've  tried  them  all  I  —  caught  ?  —  thank  you 
— '  caught  the  lean  profile  of  Miss  Eufrasia  Jenks  bending ' 

—  I  say,  Eob,  a  profile  can't  bend !  — '  over  the  psychology 
she  lives  upon.  I  remembered  Gouverneur  Morris's  col- 
lege verses  — 

If  all  God's  creatures  should  be  fed 
The  first  I'd  feed  would  be  Co-ed, 

and  wondered  if  scholarship  had  eaten  away  her  sex;  or 
whether,  somewhere  within  that  thin  figure,  passion  was 
compressed,  like  the  earth  at  its  core,  ready  to  burst  into 
molten  metal,  or  explode  in  flame.'  "  Johnny  whistled. 
"  Good  figure,  Eob,  eh  what !  But  lurid.  '  Did  she  know 
it  ?  Was  her  arid  amiability  a  disguise  ?  Was  her  tense 
and  nervous  devotion  to  her  work  just  another  outlet  for 
primitive  forces  denied  their  proper  channel  % '  Now,  you 
see,  Rob,  what  comes  of  'knowing  something.  You  didn't 
know  enough  to  guess  right  that  way  six  months  ago." 
He  continued,  "  '  Would  she  have  been  like  that  girl  under 
the  f orsythia ' —  hey,  Rob,  what  girl  I  — '  if  the  forces 
had  been  balanced  a  little  differently  I  Did  her  brain  save 
her?     Or,  after  all,  was  she  saved?'" 

Johnny  paused  quizzically.  "  Say,  Rob,  that's  pretty 
good  stuff, —  easy  too,  for  a  beginner;  but" — he  grew 
more  serious  — "  what  are  you  driving  at,  where  are  you 
getting  ?     Is  this  a  story,  or  a  soul  portrait  I  " 

Robert  did  not  know.  All  he  knew  was  that  he  must 
ease  his  heart  in  words.     The  words,  dancing  before  him 

—  caught,  turned,  placed  here,  placed  there  until  the 
mosaic  warmed  into  life  —  seemed  more  important  to  him 


.  MAEY  DOONE  145 

than  anything  else.  He  felt  as  when,  on  the  old  Barley 
Mill  dam,  he  had  first  mastered  his  feet  upon  the  ice. 
What  difference  where  the  roll  carried  him,  if  only  he 
could  swing  a  perfect  curve  and  on  to  the  next  runner  with 
a  flourish !  Remembering  a  blind  plunge  into  open  water 
he  laughed,  but  failed  to  draw  the  moral.  All  the  world 
was  waiting  to  be  written  about,  if  only  he  could  find  the 
words. 

All  the  new  world  of  a  great  city  was  waiting,  vivid, 
strange,  gripping  his  senses,  tingling  in  the  brain.  Beside 
its  half-guessed  intensities  his  own  experience  turned  shad- 
owy, his  friends  became  properties  of  the  stage,  a  back- 
ground merely  to  the  scene  on  which  imagination  played. 
Johnny  sitting  there,  endlessly  reading,  smoking,  thinking, 
his  high  forehead  growing  more  pinched,  higher,  his  eyes 
deeper,  more  somber,  his  smile  rarer,  over  Johnny  his 
glance  passed  unseeing  to  the  streets.  And  further  and 
further  into  the  mists  of  the  unreal,  of  the  unbelievable, 
drifted  the  memory  of  the  old  romance,  the  memory  of 
Katherine  Gray. 

Mary  Doone  was  far  more  real  to  him.  Her  history  he 
was  free  to  create,  and  then  clothe  in  beautiful  words.  But 
no  sooner  did  he  begin  to  write  than  his  pen  grated  upon 
the  shoals  of  little  experience  and  stopped.  It  was  easy 
enough  to  devise  a  glowing  creature  compounded  of  pathos 
and  passion,  the  kind  that  could  never  have  lived  in  Mill- 
ingtown,  danced  two-steps,  been  easily  mirthful,  or  intel- 
lectually cold.  But  New  York,  the  background  he  chose 
for  her!  There  he  touched  but  failed  to  grasp  reality; 
there  he  stuck.  For  New  York  frightened  as  much  as  it 
stirred  him.  The  multitudinous  faces  of  the  streets,  each 
with  its  story,  some  glinting  with  hard  certainty,  others 
dull  with  blunted  desire,  troubled  him.  They  made  him 
feel  naive;  they  jarred  upon  his  idea  of  life.     It  was  easy 


146  OUK  HOUSE 

to  describe  them,  but  not  to  interpret  their  meaning. 
u  Johnny,"  he  cried  on  a  note  of  impatient  yearning,  "  I 
want  to  understand  New  York." 

From  the  depths  of  a  smoke  cloud  Johnny  Bolt  cocked 
one  eye  at  him  doubting,  hoping.  From  the  depths  of 
boredom  the  gloom  upon  his  lips  wrinkled  into  a  distrustful 
smile.  Suddenly  he  waved  his  legs,  brushed  his  books 
overboard,  and  heaved  up  and  into  his  coat.  "  I'm  your 
man  —  if  you  mean  it.  Where'll  we  begin,  wine,  women, 
or  song  ?  " 

"  Wine,  I  guess,"  said  Kobert,  smiling ;  then  seriously, 
"  No,  I  don't  mean  a  spree,  though  I'm  game  for  a  mild 
one.  It's  life  I  need  to  mix  in  with;  the  life  they're 
leading  here  —  all  of  them  that  I  pass  every  day  in  the 
streets." 

Johnny's  face  clouded,  "  It's  just  like  Millingtown,  Bob, 
only  more  of  it,"  he  answered  wearily.  "  No  fun  in 
that." 

"  But  how  can  I  know  till  I've  tried  ?  "  Kobert  urged. 
u  I  can't  see  them,  I  can't  detach  myself  till  I've  been  in 
the  midst,  can  I  ?     I've  been  a  mole  since  I've  been  here." 

Johnny  whistled  a  minute  before  he  answered;  at  last 
he  picked  up  his  hat  and  stick.  "  Come  on  then,  my  coun- 
try boy.     If  it's  sophistication  you  want  — " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it's  sophistication  — " 

"  I'll  help  you  to  it;  but  I  warn  you  it'll  curdle  your 
Millingtown  milk." 

"  Let  it  curdle." 

"  Sour  milk's  better  than  no  cream,  eh  what  ?  However, 
if  any  one's  going  to  corrupt  you  it  had  better  be  me.  God 
be  praised,  at  least  we'll  have  a  change  from  the  scholar's 
life  !     I  was  getting  bored  — " 

"But  it's  not  fun  I'm  after;  nor  corruption  either," 
Bobert  broke  in  pettishly. 


MAKY  DOONE  147 

Johnny  sat  down  again.  "  Look  here,  Rob,"  he  said 
with  an  irritation  half  serious,  half  feigned,  "  I  don't  ob- 
ject to  misleading  your  morals.  According  to  my  way  of 
thinking  a  little  limbering  up  will  do  them  good.  But  if 
it's  your  mind !  Now  Fm  not  puritanical,  but  I'll  be  blest 
if  I'll  help  to  seduce  an  innocent  mind.  Stay  simple,  my 
boy,  stay  naive  if  you  can." 

"  Don't  be  too  afraid  of  my  mind,"  Robert  answered  him 
crossly.  "  It's  harder  than  you  think.  But  I'm  overdosed 
with  simple  emotions.     That's  what  I  mean." 

"  I  said  you  were  unsophisticated.  Well,  come  on,  my 
rural  friend  — "  he  swung  open  the  door  and  waved  toward 
the  humming  street.  "  If  this  be  life,  on  and  taste  of  it. 
But  they  are  poor  stuff  —  the  complex  emotions  you  find 
in  Bohemia.     I  know !  " 

Robert  laughed  uneasily,  as  he  followed  him.  "  Let  me 
find  out  for  myself,"  he  murmured,  "  then  I  may  know 
too.     I'm  willing  to  give  two  nights  a  week  to  the  job." 

It  was  amusing,  but  unsatisfactory.  A  nicety  in  Rob- 
ert's spirit  and  Johnny's  philosophical  detachment  kept 
them  always  on  the  whirling  margin,  not  afraid,  but  hesi- 
tant to  enter  fully  into  the  stream.  Toward  midnight 
Johnny  would  rap  his  stick  on  some  cafe  table,  call  for  the 
bill,  and  murmur  so  that  only  Robert  could  hear,  "  Do  you 
want  to  get  drunk  ?  " 

"  No !     I've  had  enough." 

"  But  you  ought  to,"  he  urged,  one  Friday  evening,  "  if 
you're  going  to  the  bottom  of  this  kind  of  life.  You'll 
never  do  it  without  excessive  stimulation." 

"  Do  you  want  to  yourself  ?     Honestly  now  ?  " 

Johnny  sighed.  "  I  wish  I  did.  But  I  can't  intoxicate 
my  imagination.  These  l  sophisticated '  friends  of  yours 
sober  me  faster  than  I  can  drink." 

Robert  shot  a  furtive  look  at  his  experiments  of  the  even- 


148  OUR  HOUSE 

ing —  good  girls,  if  none  too  virtuous,  free-hearted  and 
jolly,  seductive  also  to  a  point.  Viewed  as  sex  they  filled 
him  with  tremor ;  viewed  as  specimens  of  urban  complexity 
they  were  disappointing.  All  this  life  of  the  streets  and 
cafes  was  disappointing.  It  gave  him  vulgarity  for  sim- 
plicity; coarseness  for  naivete,  lie  cared  only  for  the 
straightforward  friendliness  of  it ;  and  that  it  was  unwise 
to  follow  too  deep.  "  I  don't  believe  this  is  the  kind  of 
sophistication  I  need,"  he  murmured  with  conviction. 

"  Well,  for  God's  sake  then,  let's  get  back  to  civiliza- 
tion," Johnny  cried,  too  loud  for  politeness.  "  I  thought 
I  was  bored  with  thinking,  but  this  hullaballoo,  have-a- 
drink,  hello-my-baby  life  dries  up  my  brain  cells."  His 
voice  sank  to  a  note  of  humorous  despair  —  or  was  it 
humorous  ?  "  I  wonder  if  there's  anything  that  will  really 
amuse  me,  Rob  ?  " 

The  girls  across  the  table  overheard  and  fluffed  up  in- 
dignantly. "  You're  not  so  very  amusin'  yourself,  Mr. 
What-ever-your-name-is,"  the  pert  little  brunette  chirped 
indignantly.     "  Come  on,  Sal,  I'm  for  goin'." 

Robert  would  have  stopped  them  to  apologize  but 
Johnny  restrained  him.  "  We're  wasting  their  time,  Rob. 
Let  'em  go.  They  can't  live  on  the  beer  we've  been  buying. 
Ever  thought  of  the  economic  problem  behind  night  life  ?  " 

Robert  hadn't  and  at  present  did  not  want  to.  His  mind 
was  in  revolt  against  vulgarity. 

"  You're  not  interested  ?  "  queried  Johnny,  misinterpret- 
ing the  shake  of  his  head.  -  "  Well,  neither  am  I.  What 
the  devil  am  I  interested  in  ?  "  His  voice  grew  shrill  with 
intensity.  "  What  right  have  I  to  keep  on  supporting  a 
mind  like  mine,  that  spins  all  day  without  getting  any- 
where? I  can't  stay  comfortable.  God  knows  I  don't 
want  to  be  of  any  use !  " 

Robert's  egoism  lifted  for  an  instant.     Through  the 


MAEY  DOOKE  149 

parting  he  saw  and  felt  momentarily  Johnny's  tragic  face. 
But  before  he  could  bring  his  ideas  back  from  dreaming, 
a  burst  of  music,  wild  laughter,  and  the  scrape  of  feet 
drove  the  pregnant  instant  after  its  blind  brethren. 

They  were  in  the  ambiguous  regions  below  their  square, 
where  trucks  rumbled  by  day  and  Italians  hung  the  night 
with  signs  that  offered  table  d'hotes,  accompanied  by  old- 
world  glamour  and  sophisticated  vice.  Sitting  at  a  marble 
table  on  a  marble  floor  they  had  been  watching  the  bour- 
geoisie from  the  suburbs  celebrate  their  initiation  into  the 
vie  bohemienne.  And  now  a  little  man,  by  day  a  ribbon 
clerk,  was  pirouetting  up  and  down  the  aisle,  kissing  his 
hand  to  good  ladies  from  the  Oranges,  who  thought  he  was 
an  artist  and  so  let  delight  temper  their  embarrassment. 
Florid  mothers  of  families  safely  tucked  in  bed,  were  tast- 
ing their  first  highballs,  pretending  they  liked  them.  The 
livelier  pace  of  the  new  century  was  beginning. 

"  Now  there's  a  scene  for  your  novel,"  Johnny  urged, 
shaking  off  his  depression ;  "  social  background,  high  lights 
and  low  lights,  picturesqueness,  humor,  tout  compris.  Get 
out  your  notebook,  Rob." 

But  Bobert  gestured  wearily  and  rose  to  go.  "  What 
will  be  left  when  the  alcohol  drains  off !  "  he  said  with  pen- 
etration unusual  in  him.  "  No,  if  this  be  reality  let  me 
have  less  of  it." 

"Wait!"  Johnny  called. after  him.  "Sit  down,"  he 
whispered.  "  Do  you  see  that  group  by  the  pillar  ?  There 
are  the  real  bohemians."  He  nodded  toward  a  circle  who 
were  talking  earnestly,  bent  low  over  their  pink-shaded 
candles.  One  of  the  men  was  reading  from  a  proof  sheet, 
and  an  echo  of  his  well-modulated  voice  came  to  them 
through  the  pauses  of  the  music.  The  others  were  com- 
menting eagerly.  Past  them,  unheeded,  drifted  the 
clamor,  the  idle,  self-conscious  chatter  of  the  cafe. 


150  OUE  HOUSE 

u  Especially  the  girl  nearest  us,"  said  Johnny.  "  That 
woman  has  brains  as  well  as  good  looks.  See  her  touch 
up  the  fellow  who  is  reading.  What  say,  Rob,  we  go 
over  and  pretend  we  met  her  at  the  Prom." 

"Go  ahead,"  Robert  answered  tensely. 

"No,  I  won't.  Something  more  subtle  is  needed  for 
that  crowd." 

Robert  was  on  his  feet.  "  Hold  on,  Rob !  You'll  get 
a  throw  down !  " —  but  he  was  off. 

Pausing  beside  her  an  instant,  he  hesitated  before  speak- 
ing, for  all  his  certainty.  She  was  so  stunning,  so  easy  in 
this  atmosphere;  and  dressed  as  he  had  never  seen  her 
dress  in  Millingtown,  chic,  alluring  —  with  reserve  and  yet 
with  a  dash.  Would  she  —  at  bottom  it  was  this  he  was 
wondering  —  would  she  treat  him  as  a  boy  or  a  man  ?  He 
felt  very  nai've  again,  very  young.     "  Miss  Sharpe  — " 

She  turned  quickly,  half  rose  in  her  seat,  then  caught 
both  his  hands  in  hers  and  pulled  him  down  out  of  range 
of  the  cafe.  "  Robert  Roberts  —  what  luck !  "  He  stam- 
mered his  surprise  at  seeing  her.  "  Oh,  I'm  here  for  a 
month  —  among  friends,"  she  explained,  and  introduced 
him.  Seen  through  her  eyes  they  did  not  seem  so  very 
terrible  —  these  clever  people.  The  writer  apologized  for 
his  proof  that  sprawled  across  the  table.  The  little  por- 
trait painter  bobbed  at  him  quaintly,  and  was  glad  to  meet 
another  civilized  person  in  such  a  horrid  place.  A  second 
man  rose  and  bowed,  blushing,  tugging  at  a  tiny  mustache, 
—  a  foreigner  evidently.  He  liked  them.  He  liked  the 
little  painter  girl,  who  twiddled  an  eager  forefinger  in  his 
direction. 

"  Mr.  Roberts  can  act  as  umpire.  Do  the  bourgeois 
come  here  to  be  naughty,  or  to  see  others  be  naughty? 
What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Roberts  ?  " 

"  Wait  till  I  call  over  Johnny,"  Robert  answered  mod- 


MAKY  DOONE  151 

estly.  "  He's  a  specialist  in  such  questions."  Secretly  he 
was  flattered  at  being  set  apart  from  the  bourgeois. 
Johnny  would  confirm  them  in  the  impression.  He 
brought  him  over  confidently  and  was  not  disappointed. 
"  He  talks  better  than  I  do,"  so  Robert  laughingly  intro- 
duced him. 

u  Will  monsieur  talk  then  ?  "  said  the  Frenchman.  They 
crowed  with  merriment,  and  the  hunt  was  off,  with  Johnny 
in  the  lead,  asserting  that  to  be  bourgeois  in  itself  was 
sufficient  sin. 

After  a  while  an  eddy  of  the  conversation  left  Mary 
Sharpe  and  Robert  Roberts,  silent,  side  by  side. 

"  Perhaps  you  11  talk  to  me  —  here,"  she  murmured  re- 
proachfully. 

He  blushed,  remembering  Christmas  at  Millingtown. 
"  I  was  rather  inhuman  then.  But  you  see  it  was  all  Bu- 
chanan." 

She  was  puzzled. 

"  I  was  counting  his  votes ;  I  couldn't  think  of  anything 
else.     But  now  I've  given  up  being  a  scholar." 

"  So  that's  the  history  of  your  winter !  What  is  it  now, 
—  business  ?  —  with  him  ?  "  She  nodded  doubtfully  to- 
ward Johnny. 

Robert  suppressed  a  shout.  u  Johnny  in  business ! 
Why  he's  the  least  commercial  friend  I've  got.  He's  the 
perfect  dilettante,  but  keen  as  a  whip, —  as  intellectual  as 
you  are.     You'll  like  him." 

She  shrugged. 

"  We're  supposed  to  be  studying  together.  I  study. 
He  makes  life  endurable." 

"  So  then, —  you  are  writing."  She  bent  her  dark  eyes 
upon  him  seriously. 

He  responded,  as  always,  instantly  to  her  mood.     "  Yes 


152  OUR  HOUSE 

"  About  us  in  Millingtown !  "  Her  lips  curled,  ready 
to  tighten. 

"  Of  course  not !  "  He  was  genuinely  surprised.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  him  to  write  about  Millingtown. 
That  was  not  art.     It  was  too  intimate,  too  real  down  there 

—  he  did  not  finish  his  definition.  "  Just  a  story  about  a 
girl,  here,  in  New  York,"  he  explained,  "  who  was  —  well, 
disillusioned  and  unfortunate."  Somehow  he  could  not 
make  Mary  Doone,  the  tender,  the  pathetic  Mary  Doone  he 
had  been  struggling  with,  seem  interesting  for  Mary 
Sharpe. 

She   shrugged   again.     "  Euined  —  hopeless  —  rescued 

—  triumphant,  I  suppose.  Well,  don't  make  her  too  pa- 
thetic." 

He  winced.  Of  course  that  was  just  what  he  had  been 
doing.  She  would  call  it  sentimental  —  and  it  was. 
Then  the  conversation  sweeping  roand  the  table  brought 
them  back  into  the  group  again. 

What  was  he  doing  in  New  York,  the  painting  girl  asked 
him.  Studying  and  trying  to  write.  Well,  she  was  trying 
to  paint,  only  she  hoped  he  was  succeeding  better.  Was 
he  doing  this  sort  of  thing  —  she  gestured  at  the  tables 
about  them  a  little  contemptuously ;  or  Stevenson  stories  — 
romance  ? 

"  Not  this !  "  Robert  answered  hurriedly.  "  I've  had 
enough  of  this  — " 

"  Romance ! "  Mary  Sharpe  broke  in  scornfully. 
11  Every  one  is  feeding  us  sweet  stuff,  except " —  she 
nodded  to  the  Erenchman  gracefully  — "  your  people.  If 
I  were  writing  — "  she  hesitated. 

"  What  would  you  do  ? "  asked  Johnny,  enormously  in- 
terested. 

"  I'd  do  —  well,  some  one  like  that  girl  over  there." 
She  bent  her  head  toward  a  slim,  exquisitely  dressed  crea- 


MAKY  DOOKE  153 

tare  at  a  nearby  table,  with  perfect  cheeks,  and  cold,  indo- 
lent eyes.  "  She  plays  the  game.  See  how  she  gives  him 
just  a  glance  now  and  then,  that  fat,  greedy  fool  across 
from  her  —  just  enough,  no  more.  I  would  choose  her 
because  she  couldn't  be  sentimentalized.  I  could  under- 
stand her." 

"  Do  you  want  to  ?  "  Johnny  flung  at  her,  challengingly. 

"  Of  course !  "     She  met  his  glance. 

"  Childe  Robert  doesn't,"  said  Johnny,  "  do  you,  Rob  I 
I've  presented  him  with  the  best  opportunities  now  going 
to  study  this  variety  of  the  real  thing;  but  he  doesn't  like 
the  taste." 

Her  color  deepened,  her  voice  cut.  "  You  should  have 
known  him  better,"  she  cried.     "  That  isn't  his  reality !  " 

"  What  is  '  Romance  '  ?  "  Johnny  asked,  but  she  would 
not  answer  him. 

Robert  listened,  hesitating  to  propose  the  questions  that 
were  burning  on  his  lips.  He  could  feel  the  urge  of  her 
personality,  pushing  him  as  always  away  from  sentiment, 
away  from  the  simple  things  at  home.  But  there  was 
something  new  to-night,  something  personal,  searching, 
as  if  she  were  puzzled.  He  gave  it  up,  and  drifted  with 
the  talk  about  them. 

"  If  you  could  get  her  look  into  words  now,"  the  jour- 
nalist was  saying.     "  '  World-sated  ' —  no  — " 

u  '  Flesh  alive  and  spirit  dead,'  I  call  her,"  snapped  the 
painter  girl. 

"  Now  I  know  that  girl,"  cried  Johnny.  "  That  is,"  he 
cleared  his  throat  in  some  embarrassment,  "  I've  talked 
with  her.  She's  no  more  world-sated  than  a  beer  barrel. 
That's  what  comes  of  refining  in  words.  She's  mere  sex 
minus  mind." 

"  But  you  also  are  refining,"  cried  Mary  Sharpe, 
breaking  from  her  moodiness.     "  One  has  to  refine  and 


154  OUR  HOUSE 

refine,"  her  glance  rested  for  an  instant  jealously  upon 
Robert,  "  until  one  can  express  the  thing  itself,  but  not," 
she  gestured  contemptuously,  "  this  thing.  Refining  made 
Flaubert  great." 

Robert  watched  them,  pleased  but  discouraged.  They 
talked  about  him;  and  yet  they  dealt  in  fine  sophistica- 
tions of  life  for  which  he  felt  himself  incapable.  He  en- 
vied them.  He  envied  these  bohemians  who  seemed  to 
master  their  thoughts  so  readily,  talking  like  disembodied 
spirits  over  whom  the  homely  circumstances  of  the  world 
—  money,  food,  domestic  annoyances  —  had  no  control. 
After  all,  he  was  only  a  country  boy  from  Millingtown. 
Suppose  he  should  reveal  his  simplicity  to  the  little  girl 
opposite,  who  was  swinging  her  cigarette  so  gracefully 
while  she  remarked  that  the  music  was  like  molasses 
candy,  sweet  and  sticky.  Could  he  answer  in  the  same 
satirical  vein  ?  He  tried  it  — "  But  sweet  stuff's  the  best 
bait  for  butterflies  " —  and  felt  better. 

In  the  warm  glow  of  the  Rhine  wine  they  were  drinking 
he  began  to  glimpse  the  real  nature  of  the  sophistication  he 
had  been  needing.  Not  knowledge  of  the  heavy  animal  in 
man  —  see  that  once  and  you  knew  it  always  —  but  intel- 
lectual fastidiousness.  Just  feeling  simple  things  and 
then  saying  them  honestly  wasn't  enough.  You  must  feel 
finely,  and  say  more  finely  still.  "  Good-night,"  he  mur- 
mured, rising.  il  You're  too  confusing  in  the  advice  you 
give.     I'm  going  home  to  study  '  Madame  Bovary.' ' 

"  Oh,  don't,"  cried  Mary  Sharpe  poignantly.  It  was 
useless  even  to  try  to  understand  her ! 

"  See  you  later,  much  later,"  Johnny  called  after  him 
from  a  chair  by  Mary  Sharpe.  His  face  was  alight  with 
intellectual  fires.  His  long  smile  twisted  into  mirth  and 
back  to  irony.  Eor  the  first  time  in  weeks  the  shadow  had 
lifted  from  his  forehead. 


CHAPTER  VI 

LIFE    FOR    ART'S    SAKE 

JOHNNY  dawdled  out  for  breakfast  at  lunch-time  next 
day.  Sleep  was  in  his  voice,  but  light  in  his  eyes,  and 
vigor  in  his  carriage.  "  Some  one  has  lent  her  an  apart- 
ment for  a  month,  Rob.  How  about  that,  old  fellow! 
I've  told  her  we  enlist  in  her  service  for  the  month  or  the 
war.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  they  made  'em  like  that  in 
Millingtown !  " 

He  was  better  than  his  word,  for  Mary  Sharpe  became 
his  permanent  engagement.  They  wrangled  through  long 
afternoons,  and  went  to  the  theater  together  at  night.  In 
the  morning,  when  Robert  was  at  work,  they  made  expedi- 
tions southward  into  the  region  of  Yiddish  intellectuals 
and  Russian  anarchists,  tasting  of  poverty  and  radicalism 
and  crime.  At  home,  in  the  apartment,  it  was  always  flint 
and  steel,  sparks  flying,  talk,  talk,  talk,  sometimes  all 
three  of  them,  sometimes  in  a  group  from  neighboring 
studios.  "  We  work  with  our  tongues  here,"  the  little 
painter  remarked  ironically,  when  the  clock  had  struck 
twelve  upon  them  for  the  third  night  running.  "  I 
haven't  painted  a  thing  for  a  week.  My  mind's  too  upset." 
"  Best  thing  for  minds,"  Johnny  retorted.  He,  at  least, 
embraced  this  life  of  upper  bohemia  with  rapture.  He 
excelled  the  rest  of  them  in  saying  something  new,  in  flash- 
ing irony  on  old  conventions ;  in  being  more  modern,  more 
flippant,  more  paradoxical  than  Mary  Sharpe.  "  I 
haven't  been  bored  since  she  came.  She's  wonderful,"  he 
said. 

And  once  again,   as  in  college,  Robert  thought  that 

155 


156  OUR  HOUSE 

Johnny  was  happy  and  began  to  believe  in  his  theory  of 
life.  Of  Mary  he  was  not  so  certain ;  for  time  and  again 
in  his  presence  her  wit  would  turn  to  bitterness,  and  she 
would  stir  him  with  strange,  fierce  questionings  that 
seemed  to  ask  for  no  reply,  although  they  always  played 
upon  his  mind  and  his  life.  If  he  had  not  been  preoccu- 
pied with  mental  revolution  he  would  have  been  hurt  by 
her  curious  antagonisms.  As  it  was,  he  labored  along  after 
the  rest  of  them,  under  forced  draught,  and  regardless  of 
gathering  emotions.  At  first  he  sat  rather  silently  on 
divans  or  in  corner  chairs,  afraid  to  join  the  persiflage,  but 
all  astir  with  strong  reactions  from  the  ideas  they  flung  off 
so  readily.  Lucille,  the  painter  girl,  hovered  about  him 
with  sympathetic  questions  as  to  his  work,  very  different 
from  Mary's  girding  comments ;  but  he  found  it  difficult  to 
answer.  He  was  plugging  away,  he  said,  but  his  mind  was 
upset.  It  was  fortunate  that  his  year's  work  at  the  uni- 
versity was  nearly  completed,  for  his  labors,  indeed,  were 
far  afield  from  research.  Ibsen  and  Shaw  floated  through 
the  talk  one  afternoon,  sniffed  at  by  Mary  Sharpe,  pas- 
sionately defended  by  Johnny.  In  a  week  he  had  read 
them  through,  and  was  struggling  in  a  net  of  destructive 
realism.  He  did  not  free  his  mind;  but  his  tongue  was 
loosened,  for  it  was  easy  to  lash  flippantly  at  conventions 
when  one  had  learned  from  masters  of  the  art. 

Among  all  the  frequenters  of  Mary's  rooms  the  journal- 
ist intrigued  him  most.  His  name  was  Wilberforce,  a 
name  little  known  to  New  York,  which  read  his  slangy  edi- 
torials and  was  moved  without  troubling  to  ask  for  the 
author.  "  I'll  tell  you  how  i"  write,"  he  said  to  Robert  in 
a  moment  of  confidence,  "  I  soak  up  on  William  James  or 
Nietzsche,  then  swing  the  ideas  I  get  into  ward  politics,  or 
lynch  law,  or  any  old  thing.  I  get  ballast  that  way;  and 
ballast  is  what  counts  in  writing." 


LIFE  FOK  AKT'S  SAKE  157 

Eobert  stirred  uneasily.  "  Suppose  you  can't  use  it  ? 
Suppose  you  haven't  the  technique  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  easy  enough  to  get  the  stuff  over,  once  you  have 
it,"  Wilberforce  returned  loftily.  "  Nobody  cares  for 
style  nowadays.     Just  let  'em  have  it  straight." 

Eobert  shuddered ;  but  he  read  William  James  on  Prag- 
matism, and  "  Thus  Spake  Zarathrustra,"  finding  that  he 
could  write  less  than  ever.  But  he  could  talk  better. 
Leaving  his  old  seat  in  the  corner,  he  pushed  nearer  the  tea- 
table. 

There  he  found  Johnny  and  Mary  at  the  heart  of  the 
circle,  and  yet  somehow  remote  from  the  rest.  His  quips 
were  for  her ;  her  murmured,  tense  responses  sought  satis- 
faction only  in  his  face.  Robert  was  hurt.  They  were 
his  friends.  This  friendship  was  of  his  making.  Bellig- 
erently he  forced  himself  into  the  conversation.  Mary 
flushed,  her  voice  softened ;  but  Johnny  with  an  easy  twist 
of  his  skilled  rapier  thrust  him  out  again.  Eobert  saw  his 
following  query  touch  and  prick  upon  Mary's  mind;  saw 
her  turn  toward  him  unwilling,  and  then  forget  time  and 
place  in  the  fervor  of  good  talk.  A  little  stream  of  jealous 
loneliness  trickled  into  his  mood.  He  spoke  again :  she  did 
not  hear  him.  His  loneliness  cooled  to  scorn.  If  these 
hard  anti-sentimentalists  should  know  soul  communion! 
What  a  chance  for  Shaw ! 

"  If  you  want  to  do  your  courting  in  public,"  he  said 
rather  brutally,  "  you  ought  to  hang  up  a  '  no  admittance ' 
sign.     I  didn't  mean  to  butt  in." 

Johnny  paled  and  stammered.  Mary  sank  back  in  her 
chair,  hurt,  proud,  with  what  seemed  beseeching  eyes. 
The  joke  was  a  failure;  it  left  him  unhappy,  he  did  not 
know  why.  He  turned  elsewhere  with  his  new-found 
irony.  After  that  day  she  would  not  answer  a  flippant 
word ;  would  seldom  talk  except  to  the  full  circle,  though 


158  OUR  HOUSE 

Johnny,  hovering  on  the  outskirts,  tried  to  draw  her  to  the 
embrasure  that  looked  down  upon  the  maples  of  the  Square. 
But  what  happened  in  the  mornings  Robert  did  not 
know. 

And  yet  this  new  world  of  the  voyaging  intellect,  which 
obsessed  him  beyond  friendship  and  its  moods,  was  external 
merely,  was  without  and  beyond  his  real  self  as  the  city 
streets  are  apart  from  the  brooding  mind  that  courses  them, 
until  more  glamorous  charms  fell  upon  him.  One  day  a 
weary-faced  author  of  magazine  sonnets  wandered  in  for 
tea,  and  spoke  dreamily  of  Oscar  Wilde,  of  the  search  for 
the  golden  word,  of  life  for  art's  sake,  and  Dorian  Gray 
who  refined  sensation  into  radiant  art.  The  next  day  Rob- 
ert fell  upon  these  writings  in  the  library  and  lost  sense 
of  space  and  time.  He  read  uncritically,  neglecting  the 
implications,  inhaling  the  immediate  significance.  That 
night  he  spent  at  home,  laboring  upon  "  Mary  Doone " 
until  midnight,  filing  and  perfecting  his  phrases,  seeking 
nuances  of  rhythm  and  expression.  But  the  attempt  was 
vain.  Before  many  days  he  saw  that  the  story  was  too 
naive  for  such  refining.  Now  he  knew  that  Mary  Sharpe 
was  right.  The  theme  was  sentimental.  His  girl  must  be 
quite,  quite  different  from  all  he  had  known  in  his  earlier 
experience,  whether  in  Millingtown  or  on  the  streets  of 
New  York.  She  should  be  a  passionate  lover  of  life  for 
its  own  sake,  an  emancipated  soul,  a  rebel  against  conven- 
tion. And  then  and  there  he  resolved  that  he  himself,  the 
creator,  would  be  different  also  —  would  be  fin  de  Steele, 
would  make  his  own  feeling  and  thinking  and  living  over 
into  art.  Or  at  least  in  his  midnight  enthusiasm  with  a 
mind  a  little  drunk  from  gorgeous  prose  of  Wilde,  that  was 
his  will,  though  common  sense  and  simple  honesty  were  not 
approving. 


LIFE  FOE  AET'S  SAKE  159 

Nevertheless,  when,  after  a  week's  absence,  he  climbed 
to  the  high,  cool  rooms  over  the  Square,  there  was  a  fervor 
in  his  eyes  and  a  confidence  in  his  voice  that  caught  them 
all. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Eobert  Eoberts  ?  We've  missed 
you  so,"  Mary  Sharpe  cried  almost  affectionately;  and 
u  Oh,  just  smile  that  way  a  minute  longer,"  Lucille  whis- 
pered, "  while  I  make  a  sketch  of  your  head." 

But  they  chilled  when  he  began  to  talk.  It  did  not  seem 
like  Eobert  Eoberts  to  be  so  easy  in  his  affectations. 
Surely  he  was  posing  when  he  yawned  over  the  intolerable 
vividness  of  life.  "  Try  some  tea  for  it,"  Johnny  sug- 
gested roughly ;  and  indeed  he  broke  down  in  the  presence 
of  their  friendliness.  He  could  not  carry  into  life  the 
beautiful  artificiality  of  the  style  he  was  studying.  It 
struck  something  solid  and  real  within  him  and  shattered, 
leaving  him  smiling  a  little  foolishly  and  ready  for  a  rough- 
house  with  Johnny  or  a  serious  talk.  However,  he 
achieved  a  mauve  neck  tie,  and  after  some  weeks  of  prac- 
tice, a  somewhat  drawling  accent,  and  a  habit  of  dreamy 
quotation  that  drove  Johnny  to  madness.  He  learned  to  be 
esthetically  flippant;  he  learned  to  sneer  as  they  had 
sneered  before  the  change.  Nowadays  Mary  closed  her 
lips  against  sarcasm.  Johnny  had  become  mild  as  milk. 
He  took  no  heed.  They  were  silent  in  each  other's  com- 
pany ;  profuse  of  talk  to  those  about  them ;  awkwardly  face- 
tious when  by  chance  he  met  them  together  on  the  Square. 
Deep  in  self-refining  he  did  not  notice.  Sometimes  when 
he  had  just  read  one  of  his  mother's  simple,  heartfelt  let- 
ters, all  full  of  good  home  talk,  and  friendly  happiness ;  or 
when  the  wind  blew  from  the  blossoming  forests  in  the 
north,  he  felt  that  it  was  not  the  real  thing  he  was  touching ; 
not  even  his  real  self.     But  never  before  had  he  been  able 


160  OUR  HOUSE 

to  visualize  so  satisfactory  a  Robert  Roberts  as  this  con- 
noisseur of  knowledge,  of  the  arts,  and  perhaps  of  life.  At 
the  end  of  the  month  he  could  feel  sorry  for  the  awkward, 
shrinking  youth  of  Millingtown. 

The  story  of  Robert  Roberts  in  these  transitional  stages 
lacks  reality  because  he  himself  was  unreal.  His  mind 
floated  through  nebulous  rainbow  margins  of  experience 
while  beyond  his  dazzled  sight  deep  emotions  were  charg- 
ing. He  was  unresponsive  except  to  words  and  the  airy 
ideas  that  informed  them;  blind  and  deaf  to  all  human 
nature  except  his  own.  It  is  a  form  of  dementia  not  un- 
common in  sensitive  youth,  seldom  fatal,  bearing  harder 
indeed  upon  one's  friends  than  oneself. 

Johnny  would  have  cured  him  with  the  sweet  water  of 
humor,  spiced  with  ridicule  and  jest,  and  indeed  he  did 
descend  from  his  own  perpetual  poses  to  fling  sharply  at 
Robert's  ingrowing  sophistication.  "  For  Heaven's  sake, 
talk  English,  Rob,"  was  his  most  successful  gird,  for  that 
throbbed  along  the  nerve  of  style  and  reached  its  goal.  But 
Johnny  was  too  absorbed  in  his  own  reality  to  make  a  seri- 
ous step  toward  reform.  He  rose  now  with  other  mortals, 
gave  up  his  dressing-gown,  and  in  the  hours  before  it  was 
decent  to  go  to  the  apartment,  plunged  into  some  myste- 
rious activity  that  left  him  nervous  and  almost  irritable. 
His  old  nonchalant  self  slid  from  him  with  his  boredom. 
Earnestness  crept  into  his  voice. 

Mary  came  nearer  to  Robert's  spirit.  In  the  presence 
of  others  he  could  talk  to  her  challengingly,  as  he  had 
always  longed  to  do,  meeting  her  earnest  parries,  going  be- 
yond her  in  pushing  the  intellectual  toward  its  furthest 
extreme.  But  alone  he  was  awkward  and  helpless;  for 
alone  with  him  she  was  yearning,  tender,  regretful;  or 
irritable  and  full  of  reproach.  She  would  talk  Milling- 
town,  when  he  would  let  her.     He  should  go  back  of tener ; 


LIFE  FOR  ART'S  SAKE  161 

it  would  be  good  for  him  to  go  back.  Almost  she  reminded 
him  of  Cousin  Jenny. 

And  then  in  a  night  he  came  back  to  sobriety,  reality,  and 
himself. 

The  brew  of  estheticism  was  humming  in  his  brain-cells 
as  they  sat  on  Mary's  balcony,  swathed  in  soft  June  twi- 
light, and  far  above  the  murmuring  street.  He  was  talk- 
ing, not  as  he  used  to  talk,  hesitantly,  feeling  until  he  could 
put  himself  in  each  word,  but  with  a  flair  that  pleased  him 
by  its  freedom,  although  he  knew  in  his  secret  heart  that 
this  was  talk  only,  that  he  was  brain-drunk,  nerve-drunk, 
tongue-drunk  with  words. 

"  Say  that  again,  Robert  Roberts,"  Mary  cried  angrily, 
curling  her  lips,  though  her  eyes  were  appealing. 

"  Of  course,  I'm  glad  you  like  it.  '  Gratitude  is  a  bour- 
gois  virtue.'  Nietzsche  has  something  like  it,  but  I'll  take 
the  responsibility  for  the  phrasing." 

Johnny  grumbled  from  his  corner.  "  Nietzsche  will 
give  you  moral  indigestion  if  you  don't  look  out." 

Mary  Sharpe  tossed  her  head  indignantly.  "  You  don't 
believe  it!  You  don't  believe  half  you  say  now,  Robert 
Roberts.     I  used  to  trust  your  thoughts  in  — " 

"  In  my  state  of  innocence  ?  " 

"  Before  you  came  to  New  York.  Now,  you  try  how 
things  sound  —  for  effect.  You  talk  just  like  the  rest  of 
us!" 

In  his  corner  Johnny  shifted  uneasily,  then  groaned  with 
an  accent  meant  to  be  humorous. 

"  Oh,  I'm  sick  of  all  this  posing !  "  she  cried.  "  I'm 
sick  of  philosophizing  about  and  about, —  all  words,  and 
affectations.  It  seems  that  I  have  to  do  it ;  for  I'm  made 
that  way.  But  you  men  should  be  ashamed  — "  she  turned 
upon  Johnny  with  sudden  anger  — "  to  sit  here  talking, 
when  you  are  men  and  can  do  I " 


162  OUK  HOUSE 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Johnny  hollowly.  Something  in  Rob- 
ert awoke  with  a  start.  Johnny  was  in  earnest!  It  was 
clear  that  he  meant  himself ! 

"  What  matter!  Anything  but  talk ! !  Robert  — "  she 
dropped  her  clear  chin  on  her  hand  — "  You  are  getting 
to  be  a  dilettante,  like,  like  — "  she  hesitated. 

"Us!"  murmured  Johnny  sadly.  She  flung  him  a 
glance.  "  Yes,"  and  there  was  deep  melancholy  in  her 
rejoinder  — "  us." 

Robert  was  nervous.  The  air  seemed  electric  with  hid- 
den meanings.  It  was  ceasing  to  be  the  rosy  atmosphere 
of  the  peaks  of  estheticism  among  which  he  had  been  soar- 
ing. He  could  feel  himself  dropping  toward  the  mere  per- 
plexities of  life ;  but  beat  up  again  manfully.  "  I'm  learn- 
ing to  write.     That's  doing  something." 

u  Are  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Johnny  Bolt. 

Robert  was  piqued  at  their  agreement  to  criticize. 
"  You  seem  to  know  a  good  deal,  by  intuition,"  he  returned 
with  the  artist's  superiority. 

"  From  deduction,  my  son,"  Johnny  replied  seriously. 
"  What  are  you  working  on  ?     Be  honest  now,  and  tell  us." 

Robert  shut  his  lips  tight,  but  his  desire  for  sympathy 
was  stronger  than  irritation.  After  all,  they  were  his  best 
friends.  "  The  same  old  girl,"  he  said,  with  a  return  to 
refreshing  shyness,  "  the  girl  of  the  forsythias ;  only  now 
she's  emancipated,  a  new  soul,  seeking  passionate  experi- 
ence in  life.  She  has  adventures  —  each  is  a  chapter  — 
some  of  them  are  sordid,  some  of  them  trivial  —  but  each 
is  like  a  cameo  carved  exquisitely  in  precious  stone  —  I 
mean  that's  the  way  I  try  to  write  it.  At  last  —  I  haven't 
gotten  this  far  yet  —  she  seeks  the  culmination  of  living 
for  a  woman.     Dorian  Gray  committed  murder  for  the  ex- 


LIFE  FOE  AKT'S  SAKE  163 

perience.  Well,  she  has  a  child ;  and  then  my  last  chapter 
will  show  her  going  on,  unsated,  unafraid,  out  into  the 
world  again,  seeking  still  for  new  experience,  perhaps  in 
greater  love,  perhaps  — "  he  paused  rapt  in  his  own  imagi- 
nation — "  in  death." 

There  was  silence  for  an  instant.  "  And  like  Hedda 
Gabler  she  does  it  all  beautifully,"  was  Johnny's  slow  re- 
mark.    "  My  son,  does  that  represent  your  taste  in  life  ?  " 

Robert  dropped  from  the  clouds.  "  It's  an  interesting 
idea,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  responded  pugnaciously.  "  She's  like 
the  men  of  the  fourteenth  century  who  fought  other  peo- 
ple's quarrels  just  because  adventure  was  their  food  and 
drink.  Why  isn't  a  woman  who  lives  solely  for  experi- 
ence, as  interesting  as  our  kind  — "  he  noticed  the  half  ad- 
mission and  covered  it  by  vehemence  — "  more  interesting, 
whether  we  approve  of  her  or  not.  In  a  way  it's  noble,  the 
passion  for  life." 

Johnny  glanced  at  Mary  Sharpe,  again  uneasily  shift- 
ing. "  Kobbie,"  he  murmured  awkwardly.  "  You're  pos- 
ing. You  know  you're  posing.  Now  I  may  be  capable  of 
thinking  that  way  in  my  more  rebellious  moments ;  but  not 
you.  Don't  tell  me  that's  your  definition  of  the  ideal  in 
woman  for  I  know  it  isn't." 

"  It  is !  It  is ! "  cried  Mary  Sharpe  despairingly. 
"  And  even  if  he  were  just  posing,  I  should  feel  as  badly. 
We've  spoiled  him.  We've  made  him  just  like  the  rest  of 
us !  "  To  Robert's  consternation  she  burst  into  tears  and 
hurried  from  the  room. 

Johnny  was  on  his  feet  as  quickly  as  she,  but  did  noth- 
ing, just  stared  painfully  after  her  until  the  door  slammed ; 
then  turned  upon  Robert  with  anger  in  his  voice.  "  For 
God's  sake,  man,"  he  cried  roughly,  "  if  you  do  feel  that 
way   about   women   keep  your  mouth   shut  when   she's 


164  OUR  HOUSE 

around !  And  don't  put  it  on  so  much.  I  know  it's  just 
literary  and  doesn't  mean  anything  —  but  don't  be  so 
damned  posish,  at  least  with  her !  " 

Eobert  stared  at  him  in  speechless  amazement.  u  But 
why  ?     Why  does  she  care  I  " 

By  a  visible  effort  Johnny  controlled  himself.  u  It's  the 
devil  to  make  you  see,  you're  so  up  in  the  air  nowadays. 
Why,  my  son,"  he  tried  to  pull  on  the  old  jaunty  mood 
again,  but  the  garment  stretched  — "  she  thinks  that  our 
talk  and  ideas  have  made  you  cynical  —  spoiled  your  fresh, 
virgin  nature,  you  know, —  made  you  like  me  —  and  her." 

Eobert  groped  for  a  thought  through  crumbling  delu- 
sions. "  Yes,"  he  said,  slowly,  and  even  now  the  artist  in 
him  was  stronger  than  the  man,  "  I  see,  I'm  not  like  that ; 
I  couldn't  be  if  I  wished.  I  was  an  ass  to  try.  She  was 
right  to  hate  me  for  it." 

Johnny  rammed  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes  and  reached 
for  his  stick.  H  She  doesn't  hate  you,"  he  said  bitterly. 
"  It's  me  she  hates." 

"  What  rot,"  Eobert  murmured  absently.  "  What's  the 
matter  with  you  anyway  ?     What  made  you  get  so  hot  ?  " 

Johnny's  Irish  grin  was  slow  in  coming,  but  it  came  at 
last,  and  a  broad  one.  "  What  you  need  is  a  course  in 
human  nature,  old  fellow,"  he  chuckled,  "  for  in  spite  of 
some  talent  for  literature,  you  can't  see  what  happens  un- 
der your  nose  unless  some  one  points  it  out  to  you.  Come 
on,  let's  get  out  of  this.     Quick,  before  she  comes  back !  " 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   REAL    THING 

WHEN  Robert  Roberts  woke  the  next  morning,  the  first 
June  sun  was  warming  him  deliriously.  In  sheer 
physical  bliss  of  being  he  stretched  to  his  toes  beneath  the 
sheet.  A  swallow  dipped  twittering  past  his  window,  a 
robin  caroled  somewhere.  He  stretched  again  and  felt  in 
the  midst  of  the  glorious  relaxing,  a  little  discomfort 
spreading,  spreading,  growing  into  vague  distress,  into 
woe;  then  his  brain  clicked  into  memory  and  he  sat  up, 
miserable,  fully  awake. 

Whence  this  disgust  with  himself  and  his  thoughts? 
Because  he  couldn't  see  what  was  happening  under  his 
nose !  The  words  stung  his  vanity  and  mystified  him,  but 
that  was  not  it.  Because  he  was  spoiled,  a  dilettante,  like 
Johnny  and  the  rest.  No,  that  was  not  it.  It  wasn't  true ! 
The  trouble  lay  deeper.  It  involved  his  self,  the  self  that 
had  been  acting  and  parading  before  these  good  friends 
of  his;  the  self  he  had  been  cultivating  so  carefully.  He 
stopped  dressing  for  an  instant  and  tried  to  objectify  this 
person  who  had  been  calling  himself  Robert  Roberts. 
Some  qualities  in  it  he  honestly  liked ;  but  the  effect  on  the 
whole  was  unpleasant.  Something  vivid,  something  seri- 
ous had  been  happening  to  Johnny  and  Mary  Sharpe  while 
he  —  he  had  been  shaping  a  pose.  "  Perfecting  my  art," 
the  phrase  returned  to  mock  him.  It  had  a  canting,  arti- 
ficial, foppish  sound  to  it.  Picking  up  a  page  or  two  of 
manuscript  from  the  table,  he  read  the  last  paragraphs  he 
had  written.     The  same  sound  echoed  there.     They  were 

165 


166  OUR  HOUSE 

mannered,  overwrought,  his  style,  as  he  had  made  it,  but 
not  himself: 

"  She  touched  the  little,  wrinkled  face  of  the  infant, 
luxuriating  in  its  softness ;  then  kissed  the  tiny  cheek,  and 
fared  on,  after  new  adventure,  out  into  the  night." 

"  Eats !  "  murmured  Robert  Roberts,  thoughts  of  his 
mother  and  the  women  he  had  really  known,  welling  into 
his  mind.  "  That's  ridiculous.  She  never  '  fared  out  into 
the  night.'  It's  all  words !  "  But  if  writing  and  pose 
were  both  unreal,  what  was  he  good  for !  The  woe  flooded 
up  in  his  breast.  Life  flattened.  Experience  seemed  un- 
profitable.    He  tasted  ashes. 

A  muffled  yawn  from  Johnny's  room  below  startled  him. 
In  this  mood  he  could  face  no  one  who  knew  him ;  an  in- 
stinct told  him  that  he  must  thresh  out  this  self  of  his  be- 
fore he  risked  again  friendly  contact  and  realities  blinked 
before.     Out,  out ! 

In  the  Square  it  was  gleaming,  lilac-scented  morning. 
A  wind  from  over  the  river  blew  clouds  like  whipped-cream 
molds  across  a  lake-blue  sky.  He  would  go  to  the  woods, 
his  old  comforters.  He  would  find  a  place  behind  some 
screen  of  leaves  where  he  could  hide  secure,  and  let  his  own 
self  emerge.  There,  the  moment  would  be  sure  to  come,  as 
always,  when  his  soul  would  tug  away  from  the  reticences, 
the  shames,  the  desires  that  held  it,  and  be  serene  and  wise. 
After  that  he  would  be  humbler  and  finer.  After  that  he 
would  guess  what  to  do. 

It  was  noon  before  he  found  the  place  he  sought.  The 
hills  that  called  to  him  so  urgently  from  the  Jersey  shore, 
when  he  reached  them  were  raw  with  new  streets  and  half- 
built  houses.  Their  woods  were  ragged  from  culling, 
soiled  with  refuse,  all  privacy  gone.  But  over  their  crests 
the  baneful  influences  of  the  city  began  to  weaken.  Fields 
new  grown  in  tender  corn  lay  between  buttercup  meadows. 


THE  EEAL  THING  167 

White  oaks  made  dark  green  pools  of  shade  at  their  bor- 
ders ;  and  beyond,  above  a  curtain  of  wild  cherry  bestarred 
with  dogwood,  rose  the  forest.  He  put  aside  the  screen, 
and  entering  cool  silences,  found  a  hollow  between  the 
knees  ox  a  tulip  poplar  where  he  could  stretch  himself  flat 
upon  the  ferns. 

Some  men  go  to  religion  to  be  healed ;  others,  if  fiction 
and  biography  may  be  trusted,  to  the  clear  processes  of 
logical  thought.  Still  others,  instinctively  and  without 
affectation,  go  straight  to  nature  for  their  cure.  One  does 
not  have  to  be  a  pantheist  to  feel  the  tonic  of  solitude  in  the 
forest.  One  does  not  have  to  be  conscious  of  the  comfort- 
ing harmony  in  tree  and  vine  and  rock  and  flower.  Na- 
ture, which  the  eighteenth  century  personified  coldly,  and 
the  nineteenth  made  romantic,  in  her  own  function  heals 
because  she  hides  and  protects  the  injured  spirit,  because 
her  impersonality  soothes  its  wounded  egoism,  because  in 
her  steady  rhythm  the  man  restores  his  own. 

So  it  was,  as  it  always  had  been,  with  Eobert  Roberts. 
At  first  he  lay  idly  watching  the  hurrying  ants  among  their 
grass-stem  girders,  smiling  lazily  at  the  Maryland  yellow 
throats  who  twitted  him  from  their  bush,  conscious  of  pro- 
tection in  the  leaves  that  sheltered  him,  letting  his  mind 
rest,  his  soul  expand.  One  after  another  the  personalities 
he  had  been  shaping  so  industriously  relaxed  and  un- 
clasped him, —  the  sophisticated  Robert  Roberts,  the  exact 
and  scholarly  Robert  Roberts,  the  rebellions  Robert  Rob- 
erts of  Millingtown,  the  careless  Robert  Roberts  of  college. 
At  last  he  was  just  himself. 

How  exquisite,  in  this  new  simplicity,  seemed  his  world 
about  him.  How  the  branched  pathways  of  the  trees 
climbed  and  climbed  into  sunlight.  How  radiant  the 
green  of  the  moss  cushions, —  glowing  on  the  dark  forest 
cover  until  his  eyes  burned  with  the  beauty  of  color  and 


168  OUK  HOUSE 

light.  And  then  the  wood  thrush !  As  her  clear,  pure  bell 
rang  through  the  shadows,  something  prayed  in  his  heart. 

After  a  while  his  thoughts  strayed  outward,  lingered  at 
home  with  our  house  and  his  mother,  followed  the  track  of 
his  wanderings,  and  easily,  without  strain  or  confusion, 
came  to  his  friends,  and  Mary  Sharpe.  "  I  must  tell  her 
what  I  am  —  what  she  has  meant  to  me,"  he  said  aloud, 
without  attempting  to  reason  the  why.  First  a  climb  to 
limber  cramped  muscles.  He  pulled  himself  up  a  lithe 
beech  and,  hurling  his  body  outward,  swung  in  a  long  curve 
back  to  the  sheltering  leaves  of  the  undergrowth.  Then 
with  a  cheerful  heart,  he  burst  through  the  dogwoods, 
jumped  the  wall  by  the  oak  trees,  and  settled  into  his  stride. 

When  he  crested  the  ridge  it  was  late  afternoon.  Blue 
misty  clouds,  cut  by  lightning,  were  piling  up  behind  the 
distant  city.  The  air  had  lost  its  freshness;  it  hung  hot 
and  heavy  and  depressing  upon  his  forehead.  His  pace 
slackened;  uncomfortable  thoughts  began  to  stir  in  his 
brain.  After  all,  she  had  wept  for  him!  Why?  Was 
there  something  still  hidden;  was  there  a  secret  that 
Johnny  could  tell  him  ?  Could  it  be  —  he  stopped,  blush- 
ing, in  panic  —  that  she  was  in  love  —  with  him ! 

That  was  too  absurd,  too  melodramatic !  Common  sense 
reassured  him.  Why,  he  had  always  been  a  boy  to  her. 
He  hurried  on,  but  still  a  little  discomfort  lingered.  What 
was  his  common  sense  worth!  He  had  never  understood 
his  father.     Did  he  understand  Mary  Sharpe  I 

Away  with  such  mawkish  thoughts.  One  hearty  laugh 
of  Johnny's  would  scatter  this  egoism,  and  make  him  prop- 
erly ashamed.  Johnny  —  the  anti-sentimentalist.  His 
Irish  face  floated  comfortably  in  the  imagination;  then 
changed,  and  put  on  —  as  vividly  as  if  in  presence  —  the 
look  of  yesterday,  when  Mary  Sharpe  had  left  them,  weep- 
ing.    "  Good  Lord,"  said  Eobert  Roberts  quietly  and  with- 


THE  KEAL  THING  169 

out  premeditation,  "  of  course  —  you  ass,  you  dolt,  you 
blind  donkey  —  he's  really  in  love,  and  with  her !  " 

Eor  an  instant  he  exulted,  quickening  his  pace,  whistling 
his  delight,  abusing  himself  for  unspeakable  stupidity. 
They  loved  the  same  life.  They  talked  the  same  language. 
They  were  made  for  each  other.     She  could  save  Johnny 

—  from  what  he  feared.  And  then,  as  he  hurried  toward 
them,  some  intuition,  deeper  than  thought,  deeper  than 
reason  began  to  creep  like  the  storm  into  his  mood.  If  — 
if  those  shadowy  discontents,  those  despairs  that  blind  as 
he  was  he  had  noted  between  them,  portended  —  portended 

—  what  impassable  barrier  ?  He  could  feel,  but  not  grasp 
it.  A  growl  of  thunder  hurried  him  onward,  but  no  faster 
than  his  will.  This  much  remained  from  those  hours  of 
serene  detachment  in  the  forest.  He  would  go  to  them 
honestly  apologetic,  be  himself,  and  learn,  perhaps,  the 
truth. 

It  was  easy  to  be  apologetic  when,  running  up  the  stairs, 
he  found  them  alone  in  the  storm-darkened  apartment ;  but 
impossible  to  be  frank.  To  fish  for  love  in  those  two  there, 
so  self-possessed,  so  wary,  so  ruthless  for  platitudes,  was 
beyond  his  diplomacy.  And  yet  all  three  were  nearer  emo- 
tion than  usual.  His  hair  was  moistened  with  the  last  rain 
drops,  his  eyes  clear  with  country  lights  still  in  them,  his 
voice,  the  old  voice,  fresh  and  unaffected.  Johnny  greeted 
him  with  a  cackle  of  delight.  Mary  Sharpe  hesitated  for 
an  instant  behind  her  tea  cups,  then  ran  forward  to  take  his 
hand.  "  Where  have  you  been  I  "  Her  question  was  both 
apology  and  assurance.  "  I  was  horrid  to  you  yesterday. 
I  wasn't  well." 

It  was  an  opportunity  for  cross  questioning,  but  he  did 
not  dare  to  seize  it.  Let  him  clear  his  own  guilt  first.  "  I 
was  the  duffer  yesterday,  and  before  that.  Tell  me,"  he 
ventured  a  leading  question  — "  What  was  the  matter  ? 


170  OUR  HOUSE 

Was  it  just  that  I  talked  like  an  ass  ?     I  need  to  know.'' 

She  felt  his  troubled  gaze  upon  her  and  answered  coldly. 
"  You  were  irritating.     I  was  peevish.     Nothing  more." 

Johnny  sighed  in  his  corner.  "  How  we  hate  the  truth, 
we  poor  little  devils.  Some  one  steps  on  your  heart.  You 
answer  '  Oh,  nothing's  the  matter.'  A  word  might  save  a 
friendship.     You  ask  him,  '  Won't  you  have  tea  ? '  " 

She  flushed.     "  Don't  be  flippant." 

But  Robert  knew  that  this  was  not  flippancy.  "  Speak 
for  us,  Johnny,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  You  wish  it  ?  "  Johnny  looked  at  him  searchingly. 
11  Well,  on  your  own  head.     Sit  down  and  drink  your  tea." 

Mary  Sharpe  rose  to  leave  them.  "  Sit  down  too, 
please,  Mary.  I  want  you  to  hear.  Rob,  have  you,  or 
have  you  not,  been  an  affected  smarty  in  the  last  two  weeks  ? 
Answer  '  yes  '  or  *  no.'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Robert  promptly. 

"  Hello,  what's  happened  I  "  Johnny  sat  up  briskly. 
"  Well,  never  mind.  That's  all,  or  nearly  all.  Here's  one 
of  the  best  friends  you  ever  had  who's  been  watching  you 
turn  poseur  and  felt  badly  about  it.  You  make  yourself 
out  a  cheap  cynic  with  a  case  of  incipient  decadence,  and 
she  shows  you  how  she  feels." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  Robert,  unable  to  conceal  his  doubt. 

"  Oh,  that's  all,  truly,  Robert  Roberts."  Mary  Sharpe 
ran  to  him  with  a  tremble  in  her  voice,  that  from  her 
sounded  strangely  feminine.  "  I've  talked  so  much  with 
you,  and  tried  to  encourage  you,  and  felt  with  you  for  so 
many  years,  that  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  you  getting  sarcastic 
and  sophisticated  like  the  rest  of  us."  She  paused  at  a 
warning  glance  from  Johnny.  "  I  want  you  to  do  such 
fine  things  and  true  things, —  to  be  yourself." 

One  could  not  doubt  her  sincerity;  it  was  in  her  eyes. 
He  dismissed  his  mawkish  fears  with  relief,  took  her  hand, 


THE  EEAL  THING  171 

and  kissed  it  very  humbly.  The  gesture  was  quaint,  old- 
fashioned,  but  it  was  right.  He  saw  by  her  eyes  that  it  was 
right.     "  I'll  try  to  live  up  to  your  friendship." 

"  Last  act  and  curtain,"  cried  Johnny.  "  Now  we'll 
live  happily  ever  after !  Friendship  forever !  "  His 
voice  sharpened  into  irony.  "  Friendship  forever !  " 
Catching  up  his  hat  and  stick  he  left  them  hurriedly. 

Robert's  first  instinct  was  not  so  much  surprise  —  for 
he  needed  no  confirmation  of  what  he  had  guessed  on  the 
hillside  —  as  an  impulse  to  protect  and  defend.  "  He 
means  nothing  against  friendship,"  he  said  quickly  as  the 
door  closed.  "  It's  just  Johnny's  ironical  way."  But  as 
he  spoke,  her  face  showed  that  pretense  was  needless.  She 
knew  as  well  as  he,  perhaps  better. 

"  He  means  everything  against  friendship,"  she  cried 
angrily,  and  her  eyes  were  sullen,  almost,  he  thought,  des- 
perate.    "  He  has  no  right  to  taunt  me." 

"  But  it  isn't  taunting.  He's  in  earnest  this  time.  I've 
watched  him.     I  know  it." 

"  In  earnest !  " —  her  face  quivered  — "  and  so  am  I ! 
Oh,  Robert  Roberts,  you'll  hate  me  for  what  I've  done,  and 
yet  I  can't  help  it,  I  can't." 

"  Can't  you  — "  it  was  painful  to  speak  openly,  but  he 
made  himself  do  it.  "  Can't  you  —  love  him  ?  He's  such 
a  good  fellow,  Johnny.  So  real  underneath.  And  —  I 
hate  to  beg  —  but  he  needs  you.  He  needs  just  you  to 
save  him  from  himself." 

"  Needs  me !  "  she  spoke  bitterly.  "  No  one  needs  me, 
he  least  of  all.  I  would  jeer  at  his  lazy  ways,  and  scorn  his 
weak  will,  and  be  envious  of  his  brains  —  I  know  —  if  I 
married  him.     I  would  drive  him  mad  in  a  month." 

"  Not  if  you  loved  him,"  said  Robert. 

"  If  I  loved  him !  Oh,  Robert,"  she  dropped  the  mask 
from  her  face  and  looked  at  him  with  pathetic  eyes,  "  I 


172  OUK  HOUSE 

can't  love  him !  It  is  dried  up,  atrophied  within  me,  the 
thing  that  makes  women  love.  I  try  and  try  and  find 
nothing  warm  in  my  feelings.  And  he's  that  way  too, 
though  just  now  he  won't  believe  it.  He  likes  my  mind 
and  I  like  his.  Oh,  Robbie,  there's  nothing  more  between 
us !  That's  why,"  she  blushed,  "  I  broke  down  yesterday. 
I  can't  bear  to  think  that  your  heart  might  turn  arid  also. 
It's  too  awful  for  us  —  worse  for  you." 

"  But  " —  a  dozen  conventional  arguments  came  to  his 
lips,  and  dried  away  unspoken.  She  was  horribly  con- 
vincing.    Could  people  be  —  like  that  ? 

"  Don't  argue ;  make  him  see  it,"  she  replied  to  his  silent 
protest.  "  And  don't  take  us  too  seriously.  After  all, 
we've  each  made  a  friend.  It's  a  strange  situation,  isn't 
it  ?  "  she  laughed  a  little  bitterly.  "  Your  girl  under  the 
forsythias,  how  would  she  have  handled  it  ?  " 

"  This  is  real ;  she  wasn't,"  he  answered,  thinking  of 
other  things,  wondering  chiefly  how  he  could  show  to  her 
his  sympathy,  his  faith.  "  Do  you  know,"  he  said  with 
sudden  temerity,  "  I  thought  for  just  a  moment  to-day 
that  you  might  be  in  love  with  me." 

Some  instinct  made  him  say  it,  but  it  was  a  good  in- 
stinct. "  Not  really,"  she  colored  with  pleasure.  "  How 
absurd !  And  yet  — "  she  hesitated  — "  no,  I've  always 
been  too  fond  of  you  for  that.  I  was  your  maiden  aunt. 
But  you're  a  dear  boy  to  have  thought  so." 

He  laughed  at  the  involution,  pleased  to  have  found  a 
way  to  show  that  he  thought  her  human,  not  noting  her 
moment's  hesitation.  Then  he  ventured  further.  "  How 
can  you  be  sure,  after  all,  that  your  power  to  love  is  gone  ? 
I  can't  believe  it." 

"  Oh,  by  the  pain  of  it !  "  she  cried  sharply ;  and  at 
that  he  thought  it  better  to  go. 

Johnny  was  waiting  for  him  at  home,  nervous,  humor- 


THE  KEAL  THING  173 

ous,  apologetic.  He  glanced  at  Robert  sharply,  then  hid 
a  somewhat  crimsoned  face  behind  a  cloud  of  cigarette 
smoke.  "  You've  seen  both  patients.  Well,  what  do  you 
think  of  the  case  ? "  he  asked  from  the  smoke  wreaths. 

u  I  think  you're  made  for  each  other,"  Robert  answered, 
with  all  the  cheerfulness  he  could  muster. 

"  By  a  damned  poor  workman,"  said  Johnny  gloomily. 
"  Do  you  see  any  hope  ?  " 

Robert  hesitated.  "  Not  much,"  he  answered  at  last. 
"  It  looks  like  a  permanent  situation  to  me, —  a  railroad 
without  any  terminal.  I  didn't  suppose  it  happened  often 
that  way  in  life." 

"  It  does,"  said  Johnny,  "  and  you'd  better  note  it  too 
for  your  books.  Some  stories  haven't  any  climax.  That's 
probably  mine  —  and  Mary's.  However,"  he  cheered  up 
a  little,  "  we  haven't  reached  '  finis  '  yet,  at  least  I  haven't. 
Robbie,  do  you  think  it  would  make  any  difference  if  I 
went  to  work  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CKOWFOOT 

ROBERT  ROBERTS  and  Johnny  breakfasted  nowa- 
days in  a  cellar  turned  restaurant  by  an  enterprising 
Italian.  "  Coffee  —  the  rolls  —  the  eggs  —  the  papers," 
he  would  say  each  morning,  depositing  the  articles 
on  the  scrubbed  deal  table  before  them.  Then  each  would 
bury  his  teeth  in  a  roll  and  his  eyes  in  the  headlines, 
never  emerging  until  it  was  time  for  cigarettes.  Johnny 
had  a  distressing  habit  of  dropping  his  sugar  lumps  in  the 
tumbler,  and  putting  butter  in  the  coffee,  while  his  mind 
ranged  the  news.  This  morning  he  did  not  read,  but 
watched  the  door.  "  Here  it  comes,"  he  said  gloomily,  at 
last. 

"  It "  was  a  messenger  boy  with  a  note  for  Robert,  sent 
over  from  the  house.  Robert  read.  "  How  did  you 
know  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Intuition  and  a  guilty  conscience,"  Johnny  answered 
quietly.     "  When  does  she  leave  ?  " 

"  Ten-thirty.     We  haven't  any  too  much  time." 

The  ferry-house  reeked  of  fog  and  coal  smoke.  The 
waiting-room  was  asprawl  with  dirty  children  sucking 
candy  and  bananas,  cluttered  with  stolid  immigrants  look- 
ing into  vacancy,  and  cross  suburbanites  going  home  after 
a  night  on  Broadway.  Mary  Sharpens  trim,  cool  figure 
stood  out  visibly  where  she  leant  upon  a  marble-topped 
radiator  oblivious  of  the  swarm  about  her.  Her  gray  suit, 
fitting  without  a  broken  line,  the  firm  little  straw  hat  upon 
her  masses  of  dark  hair,  her  fine  lips  and  finer  profile,  and 

174 


CKOWFOOT  175 

then  the  bit  of  strange,  unexpected  color  at  her  throat, — 
why,  she  was  like  a  phrase  of  Parisian  French  amidst  the 
lisp  and  slur  and  slovenliness  of  an  American  crowd. 

"  '  Fare  thee  well !  and  if  for  ever,  still  for  ever,  fare  thee 
well.'  "  Johnny  had  evidently  determined  to  carry  it  off. 
But  she  would  not  let  him. 

"  Good-by,  I'll  try  hard ;  but  it's  hopeless,"  she  said, 
with  no  attempt  at  concealment.  Her  eyes  softened. 
"  You'll  take  care  of  him  —  help  him  through,"  she  spoke 
to  Robert.  "  It's  work,  not  me,  he  needs.  Oh,  make  him 
work ;  then  he'll  believe  me." 

"  But  what  do  you  need  ?  "  said  Johnny  gravely. 

She  made  a  quick  little  catch  at  the  air  beside  her. 
"  Work  too,"  she  said  faintly ;  "  it's  all  I'm  fit  for.  Good- 
by."     She  hurried  away  toward  the  opening  gates. 

Robert  noticed  that  she  did  not  look  at  him  as  she  said 
it,  and  was  piqued  for  an  instant,  then,  more  nobly,  pleased. 

"  You'll  love  me  yet !  —  and  I  can  tarry 
Your  love's  protracted  growing  " ;  — 

Gosh,  I'm  poetical  this  morning !  " —  Johnny  was  mak- 
ing talk  — "  I  didn't  know  I  knew  so  many  lines.  Well, 
let's  get  to  work." 

Eobert  was  puzzled.  "  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  "  he 
asked,  tentatively.     "  Work  —  so  as  to  forget  her  ?  " 

"  Work  to  get  her,"  Johnny  answered  seriously.  "  She 
thinks  I've  lost  my  will  to  love.  Now  if  T  can  prove  I  have 
any  kind  of  a  will,  she'll  change  her  mind.  Funny  thing ; 
but  true.  That's  the  woman  of  it.  And  do  you  know,  I 
think  she's  right.  Did  you  ever  see  me  stick  at  anything 
for  more  than  a  month  —  except  thinking  ?  " 

"  No  —  never."     Robert  was  reluctantly  honest. 

"  Well,  she's  guessed  it." 

"  But,  Johnny," —  it  was  difficult  to  play  the  devil's  ad- 


176  OUK  HOUSE 

vocate  in  a  situation  so  delicate  and  so  intense,  but  it  was 
his  duty.  "  She  told  me  that  she  couldn't  love ;  that  she 
was  atrophied,  cold, —  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"  No  woman  is," —  and  now  Johnny  spoke  with  more 
conviction.  "  False  diagnosis  due  to  an  unfavorable  en- 
vironment. I  could  settle  that  in  a  week  I  think,  if  — "  he 
left  his  sentence  unfinished.  "  I  tell  you,  Rob,  if  you  want 
a  story,  watch  us.  It's  a  new  situation :  —  woman  wants 
to  love,  and  can't;  man  thinks  he  loves  but  doesn't  know 
whether  he  can  keep  it  going.  Thinks  if  he  can,  he'll  start 
the  other  one.  There  you  are.  I  give  it  to  you,  all  but  the 
climax." 

"  You  said  there  mightn't  be  any  climax,"  Robert  an- 
swered gravely. 

"  I  said  it,  but  I  didn't  will  it.  What  do  you  think  I've 
been  doing  with  my  mornings  the  last  two  weeks  ?  " 

Robert  looked  up  eagerly. 

"  Writing.  Not  literature  like  you ;  just  writing, —  the 
kind  people  buy,  journalism,  hack  stuff,  plain  writing. 
I'll  bet  I've  turned  out  as  many  pages  as  you." 

Robert  was  dumfounded.  "  I  thought,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  that  if  you  went  to  work  it  was  going  to  be  law." 

u  My  field, —  if  it  were  working  I  cared  about, —  but  too 
slow.  It's  a  laboratory  test  I'm  after,  not  a  career.  I 
don't  want  reputation,"  his  voice  softened,  u  I  want  to  win 
out  in  this  game  with  her." 

"  But,  Johnny,"  Robert  urged  doubtfully,  "  can  you  do 
good  work  when  it  means  nothing  to  you  per  se  ?  " 

Johnny  turned  upon  him  sharply.  "  Your  old  fallacy. 
Isn't  working  for  a  girl  as  good  as  working  for  art  ?  What 
difference  does  it  make  whether  or  not  I  prostitute  me 
noble  talents,  if  I  get  what  I'm  after  ?  "  He  paused,  mus- 
ing. "  Of  course,  you  are  an  artist,  Robbie.  You  work 
for  the  joy  of  the  working,  don't  you,  and  to  grasp  the  dim 


ckowfoot  m 

ideal,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing!  Well,  I  wonder  if  you 
don't  need  a  cooling  card  of  common  sense.  Who'll  read 
your  stuff,  when  it's  done?  Who'll  publish  it?  Who'll 
buy  it  (  —  for  I  don't  suppose  you  can  live  forever  on  tutor- 
ing and  four  hundred  a  year.     Have  you  thought  of  that  8  " 

The  subject  was  safely  turned.  "  I  gave  myself  till 
about  now  to  experiment,"  Eobert  answered  frankly.  "  I 
tried  not  to  think  about  practical  results.  But  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  test  my  stuff  somehow.  What  would  you  do? 
Send  it  around  to  magazines  and  publishers  ?  "  What  he 
could  not  confess  was  that  every  sentence,  even  the  most 
affected,  of  his  manuscripts,  was  intimate,  sacred.  His 
writings  might  be  bad,  but  if  he  had  genius  within  him, 
even  a  little,  they  should  be  touched  somewhere,  however 
lightly,  with  the  elemental  flame.  He  hated  to  expose 
them  now,  so  imperfect,  so  immature,  to  the  cold  test  of 
commercial  criticism.  They  would  be  blighted  like  March 
flowers ;  —  he  was  afraid  that  the  frost  might  touch  his 
creative  spirit  also.  But  no  use  to  be  cowardly.  "  What 
are  you  planning  to  do,  Johnny?  What  have  you  been 
writing  anyway  ?  " 

"  Stories,  sketches,  any  old  thing  to  cover  paper.  Re- 
member that  skit  on  how  to  love  your  enemies  I  did  for 
the  Lit?  Well,  more  like  that.  I've  been  studying  this 
new  journalism.  There's  a  chance  in  it  for  a  man  like  me. 
Have  you  noticed  these  fifteen  cent  magazines?  Did  it 
ever  occur  to  you  that  they  are  nothing  but  newspapers, — 
with  higher  space  rates  ?  Sure  they  are.  Fellows  that 
aren't  on  yet  are  slaving  away  on  the  regular  papers  at  $10 
per,  and  putting  their  '  stories '  as  they  call  'em,  into  col- 
umns on  the  inside  sheet.  Now  I'm  going  in  for  the  same 
kind  of  stuff,  chatty,  and  flip,  and  easy  to  read,  you  know 
—  but  just  a  little  more  literary, —  not  much,  just  enough 
to  look  well  on  glossed  paper  —  and  with  about  one-tenth 


178  OUR  HOUSE 

of  a  grain  more  thought  per  paragraph.  Heavier  than  that 
would  kill  the  stuff;  but  a  little  makes  it  sound  like  an 
article  instead  of  a  news-note.  Rob,  do  you  know,  I  be- 
lieve I  can  do  that  stuff,  and  without  tying  my  fickle  self 
down  too  much  either.  I  couldn't  stand  a  regular  job  — " 
he  shuddered  — "  even  for  what  I'm  after.  But  literary 
journalism  —  that's  me  —  and  leaving  Mary  aside,  I'm 
pretty  nearly  as  much  interested  in  it  as  in  doing  noth- 
ing." 

Robert's  thoughts  slipped  back  to  the  cause  of  all  this 
transformation.  "  That's  the  darndest  funniest  way  of 
courting  I  ever  heard  of,"  he  chuckled.  "  For  I  suppose 
it's  all  courting.  You  don't  want  to  do  this  kind  of 
work!" 

Johnny  grinned.  "  Yes,  I  do,-^  theoretically.  In 
practice,  I  need  a  push." 

"  But,  Johnny,  it's  just  plain  childish  to  suppose  that  if 
you  can  publish  an  article  or  two  in  the  magazines  you 
can  go  down  to  Millingtown  and  make  her  change  her 
mind !  "     Robert  was  disgusted.     This  was  too  prosaic. 

"  It's  the  only  way  to  prove  that  I'm  willing  to  give  up 
the  privilege  of  boring  —  or  drinking  myself  to  death  for 
her  sake.  That's  not  childish."  He  spoke  seriously.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  he  had  pointed  toward  the  road  that 
lay  ahead. 

"  All  right.  I'm  with  you,"  Robert  answered  hastily. 
"  What's  your  plan  ?  " 

They  had  talked  softly,  leaning  each  upon  the  marble- 
topped  radiator,  watching  through  the  windows  of  the 
ferry-house  the  boat  lessen  and  lessen  as  she  plowed 
across  the  bay.  "  I'll  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  while  we  walk 
up  town.  Yesterday  I  met  Jim  Blakesley.  He's  on  The 
Sun  now, —  cub  reporter.     Asked  me  who  I  was  living 


CKOWFOOT  179 

with.  I  told  him,  you.  Asked  what  you  were  doiug.  I 
said,  studying  and  writing.  Asked  ine  what  you  were 
writing  for.  I  said  the  glory  of  art,  but  I  thought  you 
ought  to  be  publishing.  I  asked  him  how  to  go  about  it, 
thinking  it  might  be  useful  to  myself.  lie  said,  '  Tell  him 
to  see  Crowfoot.'  '  Who  is  he,'  I  said,  '  an  Indian  ? ' 
1  No,  a  literary  agent,  a  wizard  at  placing  things.'  i  Place 
yours,  Jim  ? '  I  asked.  '  No,  but  that's  not  his  fault.  Re- 
member George  de  Bluggins,  who  wrote  for  the  Lit  our 
year  about  baa-lambs  and  dicky  birds  ?  Well,  he's  sold 
three  essays  for  him.'  '  Must  be  all  right,'  I  said.  '  I'll 
send  Eob  to  him.'  Now,  what  do  you  say  we  both  go? 
Take  him  stuff  around  to-day  and  go  for  our  medicine  to- 
morrow ?     How  about  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  game,"  Robert  answered  bravely.  Crowfoot !  — 
he  shivered.  What  would  a  man  named  Crowfoot  be  likely 
to  say  about  art !  However,  he  had  promised  her  to  help 
out  with  Johnny ;  and  he  could  keep  his  own  opinions  still. 
It  would  be  a  contact  of  the  divine  afflatus  with  the  cold, 
hard  world. 

Mr.  Crowfoot's  offices,  the  next  day,  bore  out  at  first 
Robert's  impression  and  magnified  it.  "  Business  "  was 
written  over  every  detail  of  them.  From  the  name  on  the 
glass  door  in  the  office  building,  to  the  polished  filing-cases, 
the  bottled  water,  and  the  stenographer,  they  were  good 
business  every  square  inch.  The  boys  sat  in  a  tiny  ante- 
room with  the  stenographer,  peeping  through  an  open  door 
at  a  desk  surrounded  by  more  shining  files,  and  Mr.  Crow- 
foot, swinging  a  leg  and  talking  to  the  patient  ahead.  He 
was  a  sanguine,  emphatic,  elegant  young  man,  with  a  soft 
voice  and  furtive  eyes,  which  suggested,  however,  conceal- 
ment rather  than  weakness.  As  he  talked,  he  twirled  his 
glasses,  and  let  his  glance  wander  from  boredom  in  the 


180  OUR  HOUSE 

upper  right-hand  corner  of  the  ceiling  to  quick  scrutiny 
of  his  client's  face.  With  listless,  familiar  fingers  he 
toyed  with  a  manuscript. 

"  Good-day/' —  a  determined  little  woman  pattered  out 
and  past  them.     "  Get  a  hundred  for  it  if  you  can." 

"  Yes  —  but  it's  not  worth  it,  you  know.  Next  gentle- 
men — " 

"  Like  a  barber  shop,"  Kobert  thought  as  they  walked 
into  the  sanctum. 

"  Sit  down.  College  men,  aren't  you  ?  Gives  you  a 
great  advantage  over  us  uneducated  writers." 

"  Yes,  I  have  often  noticed  it,"  Johnny  remarked  drily. 
He  disliked  irony  in  other  people.  "  You  got  our  manu- 
scripts \ " 

Mr.  Crowfoot  consulted  the  cards  on  his  table,  rang  a 
bell,  and  spoke  over  his  shoulder  to  the  stenographer.  "  R. 
27  to  32,  B.  17  to  25.  You  should  have  sent  them  earlier," 
he  added  reproachfully.  "  I  like  time  enough  to  let  my 
judgment  settle,  except,  of  course, — "  he  waved  a  ringed 
finger  — "  with  illiterate  stuff.  Now  yours  — "  he  dain- 
tily separated  the  manuscripts  that  the  stenographer  put 
upon  his  desk,  "  very  interesting,  very  — "  he  paused,  med- 
itating. 

Eobert  began  to  grow  indifferent.  This  fop  with  a 
touch  of  Broadway  on  him,  what  was  his  judgment  worth! 
Mob  judgment,  cockney  judgment.  "  Let's  get  out  of 
this,"  he  signaled  Johnny.  But  Johnny  was  watching  the 
Crowfootian  fingers  flying  through  the  pages,  making  two 
piles  of  manuscript,  one  fat,  one  lean.  Robert's  eye  caught 
instead  an  open  typewritten  letter,  dropped  from  the  desk. 
He  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  reading  unavoidably  the  first  lines 
as  he  did  so.  "  Send  us  two  or  three  hot-stuff  chivalry 
stories ;  and  a  down-South  love  tale  with  plenty  of  sap  in  it. 


CROWFOOT  181 

Can't  use  any  detectives  this  month."  His  gorge  rose. 
This  was  the  market  place. 

"  You  are  Mr.  Bolt  ?  Well,  I  can  use  most  of  your 
stuff.  Just  a  wee  bit  too  philosophical.  They  don't  like 
that  you  know.  But  restained,  restrained."  He  glanced 
at  Johnny  keenly.     "  How'd  you  get  on  to  the  game  ?  " 

"  Watching  their  faces/'  said  Johnny  gruffly. 

"  Give  me  about  fifteen  hundred  words  on  that  — l  How 
Men  Read,'  you  know.  Just  a  wee  bit  of  irony  in  it,  but 
not  too  subtle,  not  too  subtle.  That's  your  danger,  Mr. 
Bolt.     They  don't  like  it." 

They  —  who  were  they?  Robert's  disgust  rose.  And 
the  worst  of  it  was  that  Johnny  seemed  to  approve.  "  Sure 
I  will,"  said  that  youth  cheerfully.  "  Words  of  three 
syllables,  or  two  ?  " 

"  Two  goes  better,"  Crowfoot  answered  without  a  smile, 
u  and  plenty  of  paragraphs.  You  get  me  ?  Now,  Mr. 
Roberts." 

Robert  looked  up  disdainfully.  But  the  elegant  Crow- 
foot had  dropped  his  flippancy  and  was  looking  at  him  with 
what  seemed  to  be  mournful  eyes.  "  You've  been  reading 
Flaubert !  "  he  murmured  sadly.  "  Flaubert  and  Mau- 
passant !  " 

"  Naturally,"  said  Robert  coldly. 

"  Don't !  Don't !  You're  spoiling  a  wonderful  talent. 
Isn't  he,  Mr.  Bolt  ? "  He  closed  the  door  mysteriously. 
"  Don't  throw  away  your  chance,  man.  You've  got  what 
they  want.  You've  got  it  if  you'll  only  use  it.  I  can  tell." 
His  voice  throbbed  with  meaning.  "  I  can  feel  it  in  your 
stuff  here." 

"  Got  what  ?  "  Robert  asked  in  blunt  surprise.  There 
was  a  mawkish  touch  in  Crowfoot  that  irritated. 

"  Why,  man,  the  big  winners  —  humor,  pathos,  senti- 


182  OUR  HOUSE 

merit.  They'll  eat  your  stuff  if  you'll  let  them.  Take  my 
advice,  Mr.  Roberts,  and  in  three  years  I  may  make  you  a 
best  seller." 

Robert  was  too  astounded  to  be  flattered.  "  If  I'll  let 
them  — "  he  stammered. 

Crowfoot  swung  one  spatted  foot  over  his  chair  arm  and 
dropped  to  a  tone  of  impressive  confidence.  "  Cut  out 
psychology,  cut  out  realism,  cut  out  ugly  things.  Look 
here,  my  boy,"  he  picked  up  a  manuscript  — 

"  '  The  flickering  arc  light  heightened  the  pallor  of  her 
face,  sparkled  upon  her  imitation  diamonds,  hid  with  its 
shadows  the  dirty  lace  of  her  collar.' 

"  Dirty  lace !  They  don't  want  any  dirty  lace.  You've 
been  reading  the  Russians.  Cut  'em  out.  They'll  never 
like  the  Russians.  No  emotion;  no  sentiment  to  'em. 
I  couldn't  sell  a  paragraph  of  their  stuff.  No,  cut  out 
everything  but  the  big  three, —  just  remember,  humor,  pa- 
thos, sentiment.  They'll  buy  what  you've  got  here  — "  he 
thumped  Robert's  manuscripts  — "  like  hot  cakes,  if  only 
you  don't  poison  it.  Stick  to  heart-stuff,  Mr.  Roberts. 
The  market's  illimitable." 

"  Who  are  they  ?  "  Robert  asked,  suspicious  but  inter- 
ested. 

"  They  I  The  public.  The  great  public.  Two  million 
of  'em  here  in  New  York."  His  voice  rose  into  a  kind  of 
prophetic  awe.  "  Two  million  of  them  waiting  to  buy 
writing  with  big  things  in  it  —  big  emotions,  big  feelings. 
They  don't  want  character  study  and  fine  writing  and 
subtleties.  No,  they  want  life  —  rich,  throbbing  life !  " 
Both  boys  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  He  had  the  face  of 
an  enthusiast.  "  I  see  it,  gentlemen.  I  could  make  over 
American  literature,  and  bring  in  thousands  a  year  to  our 
profession,  if  you'd  all  take  my  advice.  Big  literature's 
the  thing.     The  great  public !     Look  at  them  on  the  streets 


CROWFOOT  183 

and  the  Elevated  and  even  the  fire  escapes,  hungry,  hungry, 
hungry  to  read ;  —  and  you  give  'em  Flaubert  and  the  Rus- 
sians !  Let  them  chat  with  you.  Let  them  weep  with  you. 
Let  them  laugh  with  you.     That's  what  they  want." 

"  He's  pretty  near  weeping  himself,"  Johnny  whispered. 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  Mr.  Crowfoot  could  ride  two  horses.  He 
dropped  to  matter-of-fact  without  a  waver. 

"  Put  yourself  in  my  hands,  Mr.  Roberts,  and  I'll  show 
you  how  to  get  them.  Let's  see,"  he  consulted  an  engage- 
ment book, — "  Humphrey  Dinks  —  the  playwright,  you 
know  —  comes  at  eight  to-morrow ;  and  I've  got  that  young 
chap  who's  doing  Yiddish  stories  for  McClure's,  at  ten. 
How  about  nine  ?     I  launched  them,  Mr.  Roberts." 

"  He'll  make  a  leading  author  of  you  by  Labor  Day," 
said  Johnny.     But  Robert  did  not  need  the  warning. 

"  Not  to-morrow.  I'll  think  it  over,"  he  said  coldly. 
"  It's  the  one,  not  the  ninety-and-nine  I  want  to  write  for." 
Then,  seeing  the  implications  of  his  remark,  "  I'd  like  to 
write  for  ten  of  course,  if  I  could,"  he  added  hastily.  "  I 
do  want  to  learn  to  turn  out  something  that  can  be  read. 
If  you  can  help  me  — " 

"  I  can  help  you,  whatever  you  want  to  do,"  Mr.  Crow- 
foot had  resumed  his  elegant  aloofness.  "  My  terms  are 
ten  per  cent  on  publication, —  reasonable,  for  what  you 
get.     Remember  the  big  three !     Good  day,  gentlemen." 

"  The  big  three !  "  Johnny  exploded  when  they  reached 
the  street.  "  Good  Lord,  and  that's  literature !  Still, 
he's  right.  Now  I  am  journalism.  He  spotted  me.  Say, 
Robbie,  that  son  of  a  cockney  is  not  as  big  a  fool  as  he 
looks." 

"  I  detest  his  cockney  looks,"  said  Robert  shortly.  And 
indeed,  as  they  walked  down  Broadway,  the  vulgar  showi- 
ness  of  the  architecture,  the  cheap  sentimentality  of  the 
sign-boards,  the  flooding  mediocrity  of  the  crowds,  seeking 


184  OUR  HOUSE 

excitement,  variety,  emotion,  were  all  in  tone  with  what 
they  had  heard. 

"  He  likes  your  style  —  at  least  your  style  as  it  was  in 
your  state  of  innocence.  Say,  Bob,  you  have  a  pathetic 
touch,  you  know.  What's  the  harm  in  bringing  it  out? 
(  They  '  are  waiting  to  weep  and  throb  and  laugh  with  you. 
Look  at  'em !  " 

They  had  reached  the  corner  of  Thirty-third  Street  and 
were  mounting  high  above  the  sidewalk  upon  a  temporary 
scaffolding  flung  across  a  labyrinth  of  excavations.  Be- 
yond them  the  crowd  was  surging  in  every  direction,  busy, 
distraught,  laughing,  scowling,  idling;  sneaking  past  with 
envious  eyes,  flaunting  it  in  ribbons  and  paint,  plowing  on- 
ward unseeing,  sauntering  in  cynical  pursuit;  gaping, 
blinking,  pattering  away  with  its  own  little  thoughts! 
There  they  were,  the  public.  Could  he  touch  them,  as 
Crowfoot  said,  turn  them  aside  for  an  instant  from  routine, 
hold  their  wandering  emotions  by  his  own?  That  would 
be  power.  The  agent's  flattery  for  an  instant  thrilled  him. 
Then  the  vast  animal  below  there,  grunting,  rooting,  wal- 
lowing, began  to  reveal  itself  in  all  its  grossness.  It 
frightened  him.  What  were  the  fancies  he  valued,  worth 
to  it  ?  What  would  he  be  worth  if  he  wrote  things  that  it 
fed  upon  joyously.     He  shuddered  with  repulsion. 

"  After  all  they  are  humanity, —  more  human  than  you 
and  I,"  said  Johnny  thoughtfully.  "  Bob,  it  would  be 
great  to  feed  them  good  stuff  of  the  kind  they  like.  I  be- 
lieve you  could  do  it." 

"  I !  "  cried  Robert  faintly. 

They  pressed  against  the  flimsy  railing  of  their  passage- 
way, letting  the  throng  pass  behind  them.  Twelve  struck 
from  the  clock  on  the  "  Herald  "  building.  The  swarms 
increased  until  they  spilled  over  the  safety  areas  and  black- 
ened all  the  streets.     Robert's  eye  caught  a  girl  in  a  black 


CKOWFOOT  185 

waist  and  white  collar  scampering  across  between  the 
electric  cars,  biting  at  a  sandwich  as  she  ran,  her  eyes  ex- 
pectant, her  cheeks  flushed.  Then  a  pudgy  man  stepped 
between  the  car  tracks,  smote  his  hand  with  his  fist,  broke 
into  smiles,  and  hurried  back.  On  the  opposite  sidewalk 
two  undergraduates  —  how  well  he  knew  them !  —  swung 
down  the  street  arm  over  shoulder,  looking  for  excitement. 
Below  them,  in  lamp-lit  caverns,  jolly  Irish  voices  were 
gossiping  beneath  the  grind  of  cars  and  the  whang  of 
sledges. 

A  tiny  thread  of  resolution  began  to  wind  itself  in 
Robert's  heart.  It  was  a  little  world  he  had  been  living  in, 
a  narrow  world,  a  snobbish  world,  a  cold  world.  The  pub- 
lic —  was  it  a  beast  after  all !  Who  was  he  to  despise  its 
emotions  ?  Conceivably,  just  conceivably,  it  might  be  will- 
ing to  read  about  his  own. 

"  The  Big  Three  is  your  prescription,"  said  Johnny. 
"  With  truth  mixed  in  — "  he  imitated  Crowfoot  — "  just 
a  wee  bit  of  truth." 

"  Why  don't  you  try  them  yourself,  Johnny  ?  "  Robert's 
question  implied  assent. 

Johnny's  lips  hardened.  "  I  can't  afford  to  waste  my 
few  sensibilities  in  literature,"  he  replied  bitterly.  "  I've 
been  told  once  before  this  week  that  emotion  is  not  my 
forte." 


CHAPTER  IX 

SPOON    OR    STRAW 

THEY  came  back  that  night  still  talking  of  the  crowd. 
"  I  tell  you,  Rob,  we  don't  know  how  it  thinks  or  what 
it  feels/'  was  Johnny's  last  word.  "  Some  day  it's  going 
to  swallow  us  and  we'll  be  mighty  uncomfortable  inside! 
Hid  you  ever  talk,  man  to  man,  with  a  day  laborer,  or  a 
plumber,  or  a  drug-clerk  ?  Suppose  the  world  was  being 
run  for  their  kind  instead  of  ours?  What  would  hap- 
pen ? " 

"  They'd  put  you  to  work  in  a  hurry,  Johnny,"  Robert 
called  downstairs  after  him;  then  went  to  bed,  thinking. 
The  social  aspect  interested  but  did  not  stir  him.  The 
deluge  might  be  coming,  but  his  imagination  refused  to 
realize  the  event.  It  was  the  personal  aspect  that  kept  his 
mind  in  ebullition.  What  a  becottoned  life  he  had  led! 
How  narrow  his  path  had  been !  What  was  their  reality 
like,  all  the  thousands  of  folk  outside  of  college,  and  the 
cousins  in  Millingtown,  and  Johnny  and  Mary  Sharpe  ? 
He  began  to  feel  back  in  his  memory,  but  without  success. 
Everywhere  he  touched  servants,  or  dependents,  or  people 
of  his  own  kind.  The  other  kind  was  hazy.  They  were 
not  part  of  his  reality. 

At  home  they  kept  their  place;  but  here  they  flooded 
over  him.  He  was  incognito,  anonymous  in  this  vast  New 
York.  The  personality  of  the  crowd  overawed  his  own; 
it  was  stronger ;  it  seemed  just  now  more  important ;  and 
who  could  help  being  drawn  into  fearing  and  admiring  it ! 
He  began  to  understand  Crowfoot.  Crowfoot  was  Ameri- 
can.    Crowfoot  bowed  the  knee  before  democracy;   and 

186 


SPOON  OK  STKAW  187 

perhaps  he  must  also, —  only  it  wasn't  necessary  to  be  senti- 
mental about  it.  He  dozed  away,  and  all  night  ancestral 
longings  for  the  common  things  of  the  crowd,  the  common 
thoughts  and  feelings  from  which  life  and  work  and  taste 
had  divorced  him,  drove  and  tormented  him  in  his  dreams. 
Suppressed  desires  to  escape  from  the  entangling  emotions 
into  which  Johnny  and  his  problems  were  drawing  him, 
had  their  place  also. 

He  awoke  thinking  of  the  girl  with  the  sandwich.  How 
cheerfully  she  munched  it,  how  gayly  ran  after  her  ad- 
venture, whatever  it  was.  What  fun  it  would  be  to  drop, 
when  some  noon  whistle  blew,  one's  ambitions  and  preju- 
dices and  the  very  circumstances  of  one's  life,  plunge  into 
the  crowd,  and  swim  with  it!  What  a  spiritual  holiday 
to  stop  being  oneself  for  a  while  and  merge  into  the  crowd 
soul !  Half  awake,  half  asleep  he  began  to  imagine,  boy- 
ishly, how  he  would  do  it.  Tutoring  was  over  for  the  year ; 
he  had  money  enough  for  a  month  ahead.  To  put  on  old 
clothes,  then,  with  a  few  dollars,  no  more,  in  his  pockets, 
and  look  for  work.  At  the  first  place  they  would  turn  him 
down ;  but  at  the  next  a  shy  girl  would  smile  at  him,  would 
call  her  father  —  He  smiled  at  himself.  "  But  why  not 
really  do  it  ? "  said  Robert  aloud,  sitting  up  in  bed. 

The  spirit  of  adventure  seized  him.  He  was  weary  of 
moods,  and  a  little  tired  of  flinging  a  sensitive  soul  into 
words.  Here  was  a  chance  to  test  words  by  life,  to  know 
and  understand  the  populace.  He  was  not  absurd  enough 
to  suppose  that  a  few  days  or  weeks  could  do  that  for  him. 
But  to  shake  himself  out  of  a  snobbish  rut,  that  might  be 
done;  to  observe  the  crowd  from  within,  that  could  be 
done;  to  test  old  Crowfoot's  florid  enthusiasm,  that  he 
would  do;  and  perhaps  come  back  with  a  story.  Under- 
neath it  all  a  selfish  desire  to  depart  for  a  while  from  ap- 
proaching tragedy,  and  live  his  own  life,  moved  him  more 


188  OUR  HOUSE 

strongly  than  he  knew.  If  Johnny  could  not  stick  at  it 
alone,  what  was  his  resolution  worth !  While  the  idea  was 
still  hot  upon  him,  he  put  on  an  old  suit,  parted  his  hair 
in  the  middle,  clerk  fashion,  found  his  last  summer's  straw 
hat,  and  hurried  downstairs  to  Johnny's  room.  "  Wake 
up,  you  old  seacook !  " 

Johnny  snored. 

"  I'm  going  off  to  join  the  proletariat  for  two  or  three 
weeks.     Will  you  stick  to  your  job  3  " 

"  Go  on,"  Johnny  merely  stretched. 

61  Wake  up.  I'll  come  back  for  an  hour  or  so  on  Satur- 
day.    Keep  my  mail." 

"If  —  anything  to  say  —  put  in  writing.  Need  sleep 
for  hard  day  —  coming." 

"  Confound  you  for  a  lazy  featherbed !  "  cried  Eobert, 
kneading  him.  "  When  you  wake  up,  this'll  remind  you 
that  something's  happened."  He  balanced  Johnny's  silk 
hat  on  the  front  of  the  bed,  put  a  shoe  on  top  of  it,  and  a 
pincushion  on  the  shoe.  "  Be  back  Saturday  night,"  he 
scrawled  on  an  envelope,  stuck  it  into  the  shoe,  and  tiptoed 
out  of  the  room. 

His  conscience  felt  easier.  If  Johnny  had  been  afraid 
to  be  left  alone  he  would  at  least  have  waked  enough  to 
show  it.  Jamming  his  hat  over  his  eyes  he  dodged  into 
the  network  of  dingy  streets  that  began  behind  their 
quarter,  walked  hastily  down  a  squalid  avenue,  left- 
wheeled  away  from  the  river,  and  then,  as  the  clocks  struck 
seven,  stopped  and  looked  about  him.  He  was  in  a  strange 
E"ew  York ;  and  shut  off,  save  memory  —  so  he  felt  with 
pleasurable  excitement  —  from  his  past. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  amusing  feelings  he  had  ever 
experienced,  so  much  so  that  he  had  some  ado  at  first  to 
keep  clear  before  him  the  serious  idea  that  accompanied 
him  on  this  caper.     Indeed,  his  mood  was  that  of  holiday. 


SPOON  OR  STRAW  189 

The  street  on  which  he  found  himself  began  respectably 
with  small  stores  and  offices,  but  grew  frowsier  and  frowsier 
as  the  eye  moved  along  the  faces  of  the  tall  tenements  that 
lined  it  as  far  as  one  could  see.  Dirt  and  disorder  flaunted 
it  from  the  upper  windows.  Yet  it  was  not  slum,  though 
one  felt  the  real  slums  lay  just  behind.  Rather,  it  was 
petit  bourgeois,  with  infiltrations  of  the  proletariat,  a  splen- 
did place  to  watch  the  unadulterated  crowd. 

Buying  a  paper  at  a  fruit-stand  on  the-  corner,  he  sought 
in  the  want  columns  for  the  job  he  had  already  determined 
upon.  Johnny's  chance  reference  to  drug-clerks  had 
planted  the  idea.  Now  drugs  were  a  little  beyond  him, — 
but,  so  he  thought,  he  might  manage  soda  water.  He 
could  see  in  memory  now  every  turn  of  the  process  by 
which  Mr.  Thompson's  boy  used  to  fill  their  orders  on  hot, 
thirsty  days  at  home.  Once,  as  a  child,  he  had  been  al- 
lowed to  make  a  strawberry  soda  for  himself.  It  didn't 
require  skilled  labor  precisely.  And  surely,  somebody 
here  in  this  part  of  New  York  must  be  wanting  a  nice- 
mannered  young  man  to  mix  drinks  for  the  hot-spell  that 
was  just  beginning.  A  drug-store  would  be  the  very  haunt 
and  home  of  the  crowd. 

u  Boy  for  soda-fountain.  Must  be  clean  and  neat." 
Boy  ?  "  Well,  I  look  pretty  young,"  said  Robert.  He 
read  the  address.  By  all  the  omens  it  was  on  this  very 
street,  and  not  many  blocks  away.  Indeed  five  minutes' 
walking  brought  him  in  sight  of  it,  an  unpretentious  place, 
a  little  old-fashioned  with  its  vases  of  red  and  blue  fluids  in 
the  window,  but  looking  well  used.  He  walked  toward  it 
until  he  could  see  through  the  door  a  withered,  bald  little 
man  clattering  the  glasses  in  front  of  an  onyx  soda  foun- 
tain. There  was  a  long  row  of  stools,  and  two  tables  for 
dalliers. 

Inside  two  applicants  were  already  in  waiting  until  a 


190  OUR  HOUSE 

purple  gentleman  should  have  his  bromo-seltzer.  Robert 
was  discouraged.  But  they  were  younger  than  he,  and 
distinctly  not  neat.     That  might  help. 

The  druggist  whanged  his  tumblers  on  the  marble 
counter,  wiped  his  hands,  and  came  out  to  look  them  over. 
"  Any  experience  ?  "  he  stopped  in  front  of  Robert  belliger- 
ently. 

"  It's  not  my  turn,"  said  Robert  politely. 

"  Who's  dealin'  anyhow !  Here  you,  Casey,"  he  ad- 
dressed the  first  comer,  "  I  don't  want  you  again.  Move 
on.  And  I  don't  like  your  looks  neither."  He  turned 
upon  the  second.  "  Shuffle  again.  Now  what  y'know  ?  " 
His  parched  little  mouth  spat  the  words  at  Robert. 

"  I  know  how  to  be  polite,"  said  Robert  angrily,  for- 
getting his  part. 

u  I  don't.  That's  why  I  want  a  boy.  Know  anything 
about  drugs  ?  " 

Robert  thought  it  safe  to  deny  his  chemistry.     "  No." 

"  Good.  My  assistant  makes  mistakes  enough  without 
you  to  help  him.  Get  a  white  coat  from  the  closet  there 
an'  let  me  see  you  mix  a  soda  ? " 

"  I'm  engaged  then  ?  "  This  seemed  like  too  much 
luck. 

"  Naw  —  you're  bein'  tried  out.  Five  dollars  a  week 
till  I  fire  you.     Now  deal  away. —  I  thought  so." 

Robert  had  tapped  the  chocolate  sirup  with  careful 
hand,  stirred  in  the  cream  almost  professionally,  and 
then  turned  on  the  aerated  water  with  an  unhappy  ve- 
hemence that  drenched  the  neighborhood  and  himself. 

"  Greenhorns  do  that  once  —  and  quit  it.  My  name's 
Wixter.  What's  yours  ?  Naw  —  I  mean  your  first 
name.  All  right,  Raw-bert.  Get  busy  now,  Raw-bert,  and 
don't  poison  the  kids.  You  can  read  the  names  on  the 
sirup  stoppers,  can't  you  ?     Give  'em  an  inch  of  sirup 


SPOOK  OK  STEAW  191 

and  a  two-spot  of  ice  cream,  unless  they  look  like  good 
customers."  His  bald  head  waggled  off  to  the  prescrip- 
tion counter.  "  Get  the  hell  out  of  that,"  he  cried  furi- 
ously to  a  cat  asleep  in  a  basket  of  tooth-brushes,  and  be- 
gan to  pound  the  life  out  of  something  in  a  mortar. 

Robert  subdued  his  mirth ;  then  caught  sight  of  himself 
in  the  long  mirror  across  the  shop,  and  sobered.  He  was 
palpably  a  soda-clerk.  Except  for  some  signs  of  intelli- 
gence about  the  mouth,  his  next  and  only  words  might 
have  been  "  spoon  or  straw  ?  "  It  made  him  uncomfort- 
able; but  afterwards  it  was  easier  to  feel  part  of  the 
crowd. 

The  streets  without  began  to  stream  in  a  haze  of  heat. 
Hotter,  hotter, —  and  his  patrons  flocked  in.  At  first  he 
was  too  busy  to  look  them  over.  The  technique  of  soda- 
making  bothered  him.  As  long  as  they  stuck  to  plain 
chocolate  or  strawberry !  But  when  it  was  Sixth  Avenue 
Flip  or  Mountain  Cream!  Thank  Heaven,  the  Sundae 
with  its  complexities  had  not  yet  reached  this  part  of 
New  York !  When  the  new  names  came  over  the  counter, 
he  threw  appealing  glances  to  Wixter;  but  that  curious 
old  fellow  merely  gnashed  his  teeth  and  wagged  his  bald 
head.  Robert  was  given  to  understand  that  he  did  not 
trust  his  temper  viva  voce.  So  he  hit  upon  the  expedient 
of  putting  extra  cream  and  sirup  in  a  known  prescription 
and  passing  that  off  for  any  unknown  concoction,  no  mat- 
ter how  florid  the  title.  It  worked  beautifully.  "  Gee !  " 
said  the  little  girl  in  a  chip  hat.  "  That's  the  doindest 
college  cooler  I  ever  drunk.     But  it's  good." 

As  soon  as  he  had  leisure  to  observe,  he  noticed  that 
his  personality  had  changed  somehow.  The  people  who 
lined  his  marble  counter  talked  as  freely  before  him  as 
if  he  were  one  of  the  tumblers.  "  Clothes,"  he  thought, 
but  listened  avidly.     Stenographers  off  for  five  minutes 


192  OUR  HOUSE 

from  a  business  district  around  the  corner  tapped  with 
their  spoons  while  they  discussed  their  employers. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Bernbauru's  lovely !  He  wears  the  sweetest 
silk  socks.  Say,  you  gave  me  chocolate.  I  said  bisque." 
Tired  women  with  shabby  bags  talked  prices  and  the  short- 
comings of  the  neighborhood.  Vanilla  was  their  drink, 
"  an'  mind  you  put  in  some  cream."  Blowsy  wives  from 
the  upper  windows  leaned  a  little  uncomfortably  on  his 
marble,  whispering  hoarsely :  "  Jes'  give  me  some  o'  that 
an'  that,  young  feller, — 'bout  a  nickel's  worth.  Say,  have 
you  seen  my  Mary  Jane  round  here  ?  "  Important-look- 
ing personages  with  shifty  eyes  drifted  over  from  the 
saloon  across  the  street  and  discussed  ward  politics  in 
chewed-off  sentences.  Eobert  felt  more  comfortable  in 
their  presence,  for  they  seemed  never  to  notice  what  they 
were  drinking  so  long  as  it  was  wet, —  they  were  merely 
performing  their  duty  of  appearing  in  public;  whereas 
he  had  a  horrid  moment  when  he  served  candied  cherries 
in  cold  clam  broth  to  a  colored  lady  who  told  him  just 
what  she  thought  about  it  loudly;  and  a  still  worse  one 
succeeding  when  in  the  first  flush  of  embarrassment  he 
dropped  an  ice  cream  mold  into  the  open  shopping  bag 
of  Mr.  Wixter's  dressiest  patron.  It  was  a  relief  to  dash 
out  at  noon  for  a  sandwich ;  following  his  politicians  across 
the  street,  to  sit  at  a  table  in  the  corner  of  the  bar-room, 
and  fill  ten  pages  of  his  note-book  with  impressions  and 
scraps  of  conversation.  He  added  two  more  from  the 
talk  at  the  bar  beside  him,  and  almost  wished  he  had  gone 
in  for  hard  liquor.  But  the  drug-store  supplied  both 
sexes. 

In  the  afternoon  the  schools  discharged  their  multi- 
tudes, and  his  store  was  filled  with  chattering,  pig-tailed 
girls,  and  slangy,  unhealthy  looking  boys.  Their  vapid 
conversation  bored  him,  but  "  These  make  the  crowd,  I 


SPOON  OE  STKAW  193 

suppose,"  he  thought,  and  tried  to  read  interest  into  their 
pert  or  silly  faces.  One  girl  attracted  him.  She  sat  at 
the  far  end  of  his  counter,  silent  and,  he  thought,  a  little 
afraid.  When  the  others  talked  loudly  the  color  came 
and  went  in  her  olive  cheeks.  She  was  Italian,  or  Span- 
ish, perhaps.  He  spoke  to  her  casually,  as  he  gave  her 
ice-cream.  No,  she  used  the  New  York  vernacular,  but 
timidly.     She  was  beautiful. 

Near  her  a  youth  of  twenty,  with  fingers  cigarette- 
stained,  tie  dirty,  and  face  the  color  of  sour  milk,  was 
slouching  over  a  head-ache  mixture.  Eobert,  fumbling 
with  the  glasses  beyond  them,  heard  him  speak  in  a  raw 
whisper  words  so  suggestive  that  he  wheeled  sharply. 
When  he  saw  that  they  were  meant  for  her,  that  she  grew 
pale,  was  frightened,  he  jumped  over  the  counter.  "  Get 
out  of  this." 

"  Mind  your  own  business." 

Robert  caught  his  lax  shoulder,  hustled  him  out  of  the 
store,  and  right-turned  him  up  the  street  with  a  knee 
bump  to  help.  He  came  back  panting  and  disgusted. 
Getting  angry  always  upset  him;  and  the  girl  was  gone. 
He  began  to  call  himself  a  fool  for  this  sordid  adventure. 
The  crowd  had  its  scum. 

A  heavy-handed  Irishman  brought  back  his  good  hu- 
mor. With  clumsy,  horny  paw  he  closed  about  the  slender 
glass  and  tried  its  strength.  "  It's  a  hot  day  when  I 
do  this  at  all,"  he  grinned  at  Eobert  from  the  glass-top. 

"  Sworn  off  beer  ?  " 

"  Sure !  Till  I  get  across  the  street."  He  fished  awk- 
wardly for  a  nickel,  and  pulled  out  with  it  a  dirty  piece 
of  paper.     "  It's  a  prescription." 

"  Quinine,"  Eobert  read,  disregarding  the  cryptic  signs 
on  the  margin.     "  I  can  give  you  that.     How  much  ?  " 

"  Don't  do  it,  young  man,  don't  do  it,  if  you  know  any- 


194  OUR  HOUSE 

thing  betther.  It  was  only  a  bhoy  docthor  at  the  Sittle- 
ment  guv  it  to  me,  no  higher  than  a  stool;  and  my  old 
woman  is  very  sick  surely." 

"  I'll  call  Mr.  Wixter."  How  genuine  these  laboring 
folk  of  the  real  proletariat  seemed  in  comparison  with 
the  petit  bourgeois  who  made  up  the  greater  part  of  his 
clientele.  His  heart  went  out  to  the  pathetic  old  Irish- 
man, his  dinner  pail,  his  blackened  face,  his  opened  shirt, 
his  great  brogans  shifting  uneasily  on  the  marble  floor. 
"  If  I  could  get  to  know  that  end  of  the  crowd !  " 

It  was  this  reflection  that  led  him  to  go  to  a  Mills 
hotel  for  his  lodging.  But  the  sulky,  sullen  dead-beats, 
the  tubercular  tramps,  the  degenerate  park-loafers  that 
made  up  the  greater  part  of  his  company  at  table  and 
snored  and  mumbled  around  his  little  stateroom  at  night, 
disgusted  and  discouraged  him.  The  few  real  workmen 
avoided  him  as  not  of  their  kind.  The  invisible  wall 
that  separated  the  real  proletariat  from  his  class  erected 
itself.  He  felt  it  with  curious  fingers  and  gave  up.  The 
crowd  for  him  must  be  the  petit  bourgeois.  Better  stick 
to  them  —  if  he  stuck  to  the  crowd  at  all. 

At  breakfast  his  next  neighbor  was  knocked  down  by  a 
big  trucker  who  had  not  slept  off  his  booze.  He  fell, 
crunched,  white,  malignant,  snarling  at  the  attendants 
who  rushed  in  to  stop  the  scrimmage,  "  By  Gawd,  I'll  get 
him  to-night !  "  This  was  so  much  like  the  primeval  ele- 
ments of  living  that  Robert  was  tempted  to  stay  on,  if  only 
to  get  copy.  But  he  kept  to  his  resolution,  and  deter- 
mined to  get  more  bourgeois  lodgings. 

Two  nights  in  tenement  lodgings,  redolent  of  stale  water 
and  beer,  and  his  sense  of  adventure  began  to  evaporate. 
Then  came  a  day  of  parade.  The  crowd  rolled  morning 
and  afternoon,  along  his  narrow  street.  Its  currents  ed- 
died through  his  shop,  mixing  with  the  regular  patrons, 


SPOON  OR  STEAW  195 

giving  to  his  long  counter  an  aspect  of  cosmopolitan  New 
York.  All  day  the  shop  was  noisy  with  children,  laugh- 
ter, and  talk.  Now  and  then  a  face  seized  and  held  him. 
Once  or  twice  he  caught  a  word  charged  with  emotion, 
or  guessed  at  a  story  one  would  have  liked  to  know.  But 
for  the  most  part  the  swarm  never  felt,  never  spoke  above 
a  monotone.  They  buzzed  rather  than  conversed.  They 
existed,  Eobert  thought,  rather  than  lived  —  at  least,  so 
it  seemed  in  a  drug-store.  But  then  you  could  not  follow 
them  home, —  and  if  you  did, —  he  imagined  Wixter's 
home! 

"  The  crowd,  what  is  the  crowd  individually  ? "  he 
thought  in  scorn.  "  It  falls  to  pieces  in  my  hands  into  — 
yes,  we  have  fresh  pineapple  —  this  sort  of  thing  " ;  and 
he  set  a  pineapple  soda  before  a  fat  young  man  with 
cheeks  that  lapped  his  low  collar,  piggish  eyes,  and  a  port- 
folio marked  "  John  Burns,  Fresh  Meats." 

"That's  snobbish  of  me,"  Robert  thought,  "but  it's 
honest.  It's  not  because  he's  a  butcher,  but  because  he 
thinks  butchers'  thoughts." 

"  Raspberry  soda,  please."  The  voice  was  coy,  and 
turning  he  saw  the  girl  of  the  olive  cheeks.  He  served 
her;  then  lingered  near,  wiping  a  glass,  until  an  opening 
should  occur  for  speech.     He  need  not  have  troubled. 

"  Gee,  I'm  glad  you  smashed  him !  He's  rotten,  that 
feller."     Not  so  shy  after  all.     Was  shyness  her  game  ? 

u  I  don't  mind  what  he  said  — "  she  dropped  her  eyes 
ambiguously  — "  least,  I  wouldn't  from  the  right  kind  of 
feller.  But  I  don't  like  those  do-nothin's  anyway. 
They're  tough.     I  generally  go  with  clerks !  " 

His  heart  sickened.  To  vulgarity,  and  cheapness,  and 
mediocrity,  here  was  something  nastier  added.  Had  he 
heard  one  word  since  he  came  that  aroused  in  him  the 
slightest  enthusiasm  for  the  public;  come  across  one  evi- 


196  OUR  HOUSE 

dence  of  its  humanity  that  he  couldn't  find  a  thousand 
times  better  at  home?  Instead  he  felt  his  own  mind 
cheapening.  To  know  the  crowd  better  he  must  lower 
himself;  make  friends  with  ridiculous  Wixter,  go  home 
with  this  olive-cheeked  beauty.  For  adventure  he  could 
do  it  well  enough,  though  he  knew  where  a  tiny  thrill  of 
sex  might  lead.  But  for  what  Crowfoot  would  call  emo- 
tional profit !  Bah !  "  I'm  as  much  of  an  aristocrat  as 
Cousin  Jenny,"  he  thought,  a,nd  answered  a  call  for 
bannaner  ice  cream  and  vitchy  with  thankful  alacrity.  A 
rage  of  disgust  at  the  trivial  mediocrity  of  this  half-way 
world  into  which  he  had  descended  rose  within  him.  He 
soused  the  vichy  into  its  tumbler  with  such  incaution  that 
for  a  second  time  the  spray  flew  widely. 

u  Say,  boy,  what  y'  doin'  ? "  cried  the  grand  dame  who 
kept  the  fruit  shop  on  the  corner.  u  You've  spotted  my 
new  percaley.     Ain't  you  got  sense ! " 

"  The  public  be  damned,"  said  Robert  Roberts  between 
his  teeth. 

"  What  the  hell  you  swearing  about,  Raw-bert !  "  Wix- 
ter bobbed  up  by  his  shoulder  with  slaughter  in  his  teeth. 
But  at  that  instant  a  marching  band  burst  into  full  blare 
on  the  street  just  without,  and  the  shop  save  for  Robert 
was  emptied. 

Or  so  he  thought,  until  an  indolent,  somehow  familiar 
voice  asked  quietly  for  chocolate  soda.  He  turned,  hesi- 
tated, then  burst  out  in  astonishment,  "  Jack  Vander- 
poel!" 

A  youth,  dressed  simply,  but  with  insuppressible  good 
cut,  stared  back  at  him  as  blankly.  "  Rob  —  what  in 
thunder !  Don't  say  my  name.  I'm  working  in  the  set- 
tlement here  as  Jack  Brown.     But  —  ?  " 

"  I'm  slumming  under  my  own  name,"  said  Robert. 
"  Wait  a  minute,  Jack  — "  he  ran  to  the  front  of  the  shop 


SPOON  OR  STRAW  197 

to  make  sure  that  the  parade  had  drawn  off  Wixter. 
"  It's  three  days  since  I  talked  to  a  Christian.  Sit  down 
and  have  one  of  my  drinks.     Gad,  I'll  have  one  myself." 

"  What  you  doing  it  for  ?  Oh,  writing !  Keeping  that 
up,  are  you?  I'm  studying  the  masses.  Pretty  sick  of 
it,  too." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Robert.  «  But  what  are  you  after  ?  " 
He  had  known  Vanderpoel  in  college  as  an  idle,  luxurious 
youth,  shy,  a  little  snobbish,  as  befitted  his  reputed  mil- 
lions, utterly  careless  as  to  anything  more  serious  than  his 
friends  and  a  good  time.  In  the  light  of  a  year's  study 
of  sociology,  the  phenomenon  of  his  presence  here  was 
interesting. 

Vanderpoel  drained  his  glass  and  lit  a  cigarette  com- 
fortably. "  Gosh,  I'm  glad  to  get  out  of  the  atmosphere 
for  a  while,"  he  rejoined  at  last.  "  Father  made  me  come 
down  here.  Responsibility,  you  know;  duty  of  capital 
to  labor,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  " —  he  hated  to  talk 
about  his  money.  "  Father's  great  pals  with  Strickland, 
the  head  of  the  settlement.  I'm  running  two  boys'  clubs, 
teaching  the  mandolin  to  shop  hands,  and  visiting  the 
poor." 

"  What  do  you  think  about  them  ? "  Robert  asked 
eagerly.  "  I  mean  how  do  they  make  you  feel  —  the 
crowd,  the  public  ?  Are  you  a  changed  man  —  and  all 
that  ?  "     He  expected  a  flippant  answer. 

Vanderpoel  stared  at  the  table  for  an  instant.  Sud- 
denly he  burst  forth  with  unexpected  emotion :  "  Hor- 
ribly, that's  the  truth  of  it.  I'd  give  a  thousand  dollars 
never  to  have  come.  Oh,  they're  human  enough,  too 
human, —  but  I  don't  like  'em ;  they  don't  like  me  —  not 
even  the  kids.  I  never  was  much  good  at  making  up  to 
people,  even  at  college;  but  a  sweat-shop  worker,"  he 
shuddered,    "  with  his  chalky   face  —  poor   devil  —  and 


198  OUE  HOUSE 

queer  ways  of  thinking;  or  one  of  these  labor  chaps  that 
philosophize  until  you  can't  see  what  capital  is  good  for 
anyway,  and  then  either  snub  you  or  try  to  borrow  five 
dollars !  I  tell  you  honestly,  Rob,  part  of  the  time  I  feel 
like  a  child,  and  the  rest  like  a  brute  or  a  snob." 

With  surprise,  but  also  with  comprehension,  Robert 
watched  his  indolent  face  grow  sensitive.  "  Have  you 
studied  socialism  and  the  new  ideas  about  the  relation  of 
the  classes  ?  "  he  asked  curiously. 

"  You  bet.  Harder  than  I  ever  studied  anything  in 
college.  I  believe  in  the  rights  of  the  masses  —  only  not 
even  Strickland  is  clear  in  his  head  as  to  just  what  they 
are ;  —  but  I  can't  seem  to  like  the  mass.  Strickland 
says  you've  got  to  sympathize  with  them  before  you  can 
do  anything  much ;  —  and  there's  where  I  stick." 

Robert  was  tremendously  interested.  "  Why  don't  you 
pull  out  then?  You  can't  do  much  good  if  you  can't 
understand  them ;  and  you  can't  really  understand  as  long 
as  you  have  your  education  and, —  your  atmosphere. 
I've  learned  that  much  here." 

"  I  cant  pull  out,"  said  Vanderpoel  desperately, 
"  though  Lord  knows  I  want  to.  I  own  them.  This 
block  and  the  next  three  over,  way  into  the  real  slums. 
And  the  big  steam  laundry  down  there,  and  some  wharves. 
That's  where  I  get  my  income;  and  I  know  too  much 
about  it  to  drop  it  until  I  know  more."  He  smiled  wear- 
ily. "  I  wish  you'd  take  this  block  off  my  hands,  Rob. 
It's  got  three  houses  of  ill-fame,  a  gambling  joint,  and  two 
crooked  saloons,  in  addition  to  your  moderately  respect- 
able soft-booze  factory.  And  it  was  a  damn  sight  easier 
to  be  ignorant  of  their  existence  than  it  is  to  get  rid  of 
them." 

"  Why  don't  you  sell  ?  " 

"  Just  dodge  the  problem  ?     ISTo  " —  he  stretched  and 


SPOON  OR  STRAW  199 

yawned.  "  Father  says  I've  got  to  tackle  all  the  prob- 
lems he  neglected,  and  so  I  guess  I'm  in  for  it  until  I 
get  callous  and  can  take  to  polo.  Strickland  says  1  have 
an  embryo  social  conscience,  and  that  it's  growing  fast." 
He  covered  his  melancholy  with  a  grin.  "  If  I  could  find 
a  reliable  illegitimate  practitioner  I  know  what  I'd  do." 

Something  exploded  in  the  doorway.     "  What  the  — !  " 

"  There's  my  boss,"  Robert  whispered  hurriedly. 
"  Buy  something  to  mollify  him,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Good-by  —  er  —  old  fellow,"  said  Vanderpoel. 
"Say,  give  me  a  dollar's  worth  of  El  Capitans; —  and, 
you're  sure  you  won't  take  this  block  ?  " 

What  a  situation  for  a  story,  Robert  thought  as  he 
watched  the  aristocratic  figure  retracing  its  melancholy 
way  down  the  street ;  and  instantly  it  struck  him  that  this 
was  the  first  time  a  story  had  suggested  itself  since  he 
came.  Did  it  take  the  stimulus  of  his  own  kind  to  stir 
his  imagination?  Or  was  it  that  he  understood  Jack; 
and  was  only  contemptuous,  or  satirical  of  the  crowd;  or 
puzzled  and  bored  by  it ;  or  afraid  'i  "  I'd  better  get  back 
to  mine  own  people,  while  I  can,"  he  thought  sensibly. 
"  Thank  God,  I'm  a  writer  and  not  a  millionaire  with  a 
social  conscience !  " 

Wixter  had  been  watching  him  suspiciously  from  be- 
hind the  far  counter.  "  What  th'  hell  you  mumblin' 
for,  Raw-bert  ?  Who's  your  sporty  friend  ?  I  won'  have 
no  four-flush  peepers  hangin'  'round  my  place!  What 
th'  hell  did  he  mean  by  '  this  block '  ?  " 

Robert  took  off  his  white  coat  and  folded  it  carefully. 
"  Just  John  Jacob  Astor,  an  old  pal  of  mine,"  he  an- 
swered with  perfect  gravity.  "  Offered  to  give  me  this 
block  with  your  store  in  it  —  but  I  had  to  refuse." 

Wixter  for  a  fraction  of  a  second  was  deceived  by  his 
manner.     "  Offered  to  give  ...    !  " 


200  OUR  HOUSE 

"  Yes,"  said  Eobert  with  equal  seriousness,  "  but  I  had 
to  refuse.  Couldn't  take  the  responsibility  for  your  tem- 
per, Mr.  Wixter." 

"  What  the  —    How  the  —     Get  the  .  .  .    !  " 

"  Don't  shoot !  I'll  get  out  in  a  minute."  But  Mr. 
Wixter  was  running  for  the  police. 

Flushed,  breathless,  happy,  Robert  saw  the  Square 
safely  ahead  of  him,  and  slackened  his  pace.  It  was 
warm  and  dreamy  late-afternoon  when  all  exertion  lessens 
and  the  mind  begins  to  go  free:  "I  know  more  than 
Crowfoot,  now,"  he  reflected,  "  for  I  know  that  I'd  rather 
write  of  my  own  people  and  for  my  own  people  than  make 
a  pot  of  money."  A  swarm  of  vivid  images  of  college, 
Millingtown,  his  own  kind  in  New  York,  danced  through 
his  brain  and  drove  out  the  vapidities  of  Wixter's.  No 
note-book  copies  of  casual  conversation  would  suffice  there ! 
To  get  them  one  would  have  to  go  as  deep  as  one  knew 
them,  far  deeper  than  he  should  ever  know  the  crowd, — 
and  afterwards,  find  words.  "  A  man's  job,"  thought 
Robert  sanely,  "  with  no  quick  climaxes  in  it.  Why  a 
lifetime's  too  short  to  do  that  kind  of  work !  "  In  the 
slanting  sunlight  he  stood  with  hat  off  on  his  own  front 
steps,  dedicating  himself  to  such  service.  Ars  longa, 
vita  brevis  must  be  his  motto. 

"  How  deep,  for  instance,  do  I  know  Johnny  ? "  he 
thought.  "  Could  I  do  even  what  I  know  of  him  ?  Could 
I  think  out  his  future  ?  " 

His  future !  Seized  by  a  sudden  trepidation  he  turned 
and  ran  up  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  X 

NOT   WOUNDED,    SERE, BUT   DEAD 

ROBERT  paused  by  Johnny's  open  door,  calling  softly 
with  the  voice  of  one  who  expects  no  answer :  "  Hi, 
Johnny!"  The  room  was  growing  dusk;  but  he  could 
see  the  familiar  tangle  of  clothes  at  the  sleeping  end 
whence  Johnny  emerged  immaculate  each  morning  from 
an  untidiness  not  to  be  described.  He  could  see  his  writ- 
ing desk  piled  with  manuscript  and  cigarette  butts;  but 
no  Johnny.  Suddenly  he  spied  a  dim  thread  of  smoke 
and  made  out  his  body  asprawl,  supine  in  a  morris  chair, 
asleep  perhaps,  or  — "  Hi,  Johnny !  " 

"  Hello," —  the  voice  was  so  sepulchral  that  Robert 
dropped  his  fears  and  laughed.  He  recognized  the  symp- 
toms; Johnny  was  in  one  of  his  down-and-out  moods  and 
must  be  handled  carefully.  "  What's  the  matter  ?  Done 
up  ?     Sick  ?  " 

"  Not  wounded,  sire, —  but  dead  [  n  The  lax  figure 
slowly  pulled  itself  to  a  sitting  posture.  "  How's  Milling- 
town  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  been  to  Millingtown !  I  told  you  I  was  go- 
ing back  to  the  '  crowd  '  for  a  week  or  so,  didn't  I  ?  Well, 
I've  been  soda-clerk  in  a  drug-store,  studying  the  public." 

For  a  moment  Johnny  did  not  seem  to  hear  him ;  then 
— "  If  you  had  a  good  job  why  in  thunder  didn't  you  hold 
on  to  it  ?     There's  nothing  here  worth  coming  back  to." 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense."     Robert  was  irritated,  for  his 

experiences  pressed  to  the  telling. 

"  Nonsense !  —  Oh,  well,  did  the  dear  public  fire  you 

201 


202  OUR  HOUSE 

with  enthusiasm;  or  was  it  the  druggist  with  his  right 
foot?  Thank  God,  I  can  still  pun.  There's  life  in  me 
yet!" 

"  What  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  you,  anyway  ? " 
But  Robert  was  too  full  of  his  subject  to  wait  for  an 
answer.  "  The  crowd's  no  good  for  me,  Johnny,"  he 
said  with  emphasis.  "  It's  too  mediocre.  I've  heard 
more  banalities,  seen  more  commonplaces,  and  felt  less 
that  was  really  worth  while  in  three  days  than  in  most 
months.  I  couldn't  last  one  week  even,  and  I  intended  to 
stay  three.  Five  minutes  of  your  charming  conversa- 
tion, Mr.  Bolt,  is  worth  twenty-four  hours  in  a  drug- 
store !  " 

"  I  could  have  told  you  that  before  you  started,"  re- 
joined the  weary  voice  from  the  morris  chair ;  "  especially 
as  to  my  conversation.  What  did  you  expect  to  find  in  a 
crowd  anyhow,  John  Hay,  Mark  Twain,  and  Oscar 
Wilde?" 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Robert,  piqued.  "  I'm  not  a 
child,  even  though  they  did  take  me  on  as  '  boy  —  neat 
and  clean.'  But  I  did  hope  to  get  a  little  more  thrilled 
with  the  sense  of  common  life  sweeping  through  the  de- 
mocracy —  don't  laugh,  I'm  in  earnest  —  and  carrying  us 
all  with  it  in  our  varying  degrees."  His  voice  lifted,  "  I 
know  it's  there.  I  know  that  the  fundamental  things  we 
all  share  —  you  and  I,  and  old  Wixter  my  boss,  and  the 
little  girl  that  flirted  with  me,  and  the  old  Irishman  who 
wanted  something  better  than  doctor's  medicine  for  his 
wife, —  I  know  that  they  are  the  most  important  things, 
if  we're  committed  to  democracy,  but,  darn  it !  I  couldn't 
feel  them  in  that  drug-store.  I  couldn't  seem  to  get 
through  the  commonplace  hide  to  where  those  people 
lived.  I  was  looking  for  an  epic  thrill ;  and  to  be  honest, 
I  was  bored." 


NOT  WOUNDED,  SIRE  — BUT  DEAD       203 

Johnny  lit  a  new  cigarette,  and  in  the  flash  of  the  match 
Robert  saw  a  pallid  face  come  back  to  interest.  "  You 
couldn't  feel  it  because  you  were  bored,  Robert,  my  son," 
he  remarked  sagely.  "  And  here  you  are  back  again  to 
indulge  a  taste  for  playing  with  your  intellect  until  you 
make  yourself  the  kind  of  man  who'd  rather  smell  soup 
than  eat  it.  I  tell  you,  Bob,"  his  voice  lapsed  again  into 
tragic  earnestness,  "  it's  better  to  be  adding  figures  in  a  sav- 
ings-bank, which  I  consider  to  be  the  most  ignoble  of  human 
professions,  and  a  damn  sight  better  to  go  into  a  live  busi- 
ness like  mixing  imitation  strawberry  with  doctored  water, 
than  to  have  nothing  but  juggling  words  or  thoughts  to 
amuse  you.  Did  you  ever  see  the  bear  in  the  Zoo, — 
swinging  corners,  left,  right,  and  back  again  ?  That's  me. 
And  the  big  baboon  tickling  himself  with  a  straw  to  make 
a  grunt  ?  That's  you.  Get  back  to  that  soda-water  foun- 
tain quick,  Rob,  before  they  give  a  homely  man  the  job. 
You  have  a  chance  there  for  a  future  with  —  Gee,  here's 
another  pun  coming  —  some  juice  in  it." 

Robert  laughed  at  his  cynical  fervor.  "  You  may  be 
describing  yourself,  old  man,  but  not  me.  I  shan't  juggle 
any  more.  Come  out  and  have  a  drink,  Johnny.  That's 
what  you  need.  But  wait  a  minute;  I  want  to  tell  you 
something  first.  That  drug-store  taught  me  a  good  deal. 
The  dear  public,  and  local  color,  and  the  slums,  and  bo- 
hemia,  can  all  go  hang.  I  haven't  time  for  them!  It's 
going  to  take  me  years  of  good,  hard  work  just  to  do  my 
own  people.  I've  only  one  life  time  to  learn  my  trade 
in;  and  that  trade  isn't  in  words  describing  the  crowd; 
it's  studying  the  kind  of  realities  I  know"  He  spoke 
firmly,  with  enthusiasm,  and  confidence  behind  it.  Time 
was  that  he  despaired  because  he  could  not  see  the  end  of 
his  road ;  now,  that  his  footsteps  should  ring  surely  on  the 
first  stretch,  seemed  enough  for  content. 


204  OUR  HOUSE 

"  Good  for  you,  old  Rob,"  cried  Johnny,  springing  up, 
his  depression  momentarily  evaporated.  "  You've  got  the 
right  sow  by  the  ear  this  time.  And  she's  no  sow  either," 
he  added  reflectively.  "  After  all  we  better-than-ordinary 
people  with  new  thoughts  stirring  in  our  conservative 
brains, —  not  spectacular,  or  diseased,  or  millionaires,  or 
grocers  and  butchers,  or  Yids,  or  dock  hands,  but  just  the 
race  that  lives  between  Bourgeoisie  and  Bohemia,  to  the 
south  of  Plutocracy  —  that's  what  you  mean,  isn't  it, 
Bob  ?  - —  we  sure  are  the  ones  that  count  after  all ;  and 
nobody  does  us !  "  Suddenly  he  dropped  back  into  his 
chair  again.  "  You  can't  do  me,  Rob;  you'll  have  to  go 
back  to  Millingtown  for  your  types.  I've  come  too  far. 
I'm  rotten  without  being  ripe.  I  live  in  a  country  not 
mapped  yet,  nor  named  —  the  country  of  cerebral  dry  rot. 
Not  wounded,  sire  —  but  dead !  " 

"  Oh,  cheer  up,  Johnny,"  Robert  grunted  impotently, 
and  flared  up  the  Welsbach.  "  I  want  to  talk  this  out  with 
you."  But  as  he  looked  at  Johnny's  trembling  fingers 
and  saw  the  shadows  under  the  eyes,  he  began  to  realize 
his  selfishness.  "  Look  here.  Is  anything  the  matter  ? 
I  rushed  up  here  so  full  of  my  great  discovery  that  I 
didn't  stop  to  think  about  what  you  might  have  been  do- 
ing.    Isn't  your  work  going  well  I  " 

Johnny  waved  toward  three  piles  of  manuscript  on  the 
table.  "  Big  bear,  little  bear,  least  bear.  First  day,  sec- 
ond day,  third  day,"  he  said.  "  But  that's  only  a  symp- 
tom." 

"  Has  anything  gone  wrong  in  —  Millingtown  ?  " 

The  man's  cheeks  flushed, —  not  with  anger,  nor  love, 
Robert  thought, —  but  from  sudden  pressure  of  despair. 
"  Here's  a  letter.  Read  it.  Our  love  letters  aren't  pri- 
vate." 

Robert  read.     But  there  was  nothing  in  it  that  might 


NOT  WOUNDED,  SIRE,—  BUT  DEAD     205 

not  have  been  forecasted.  She  was  cold,  she  was  regret- 
ful, she  was  vehement  that  he  should  find  work  and  keep 
it.  She  ended  with  a  strange  sentence :  "  If  you  will 
tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  make  you  hate  me,  I'll  do  it ;  for 
that  will  be  next  best."  But  the  words  perhaps  were  mere 
outbursts.  He  looked  at  Johnny  questioningly.  "  It's 
not  this  letter  ?     You  expected  this  ?  " 

"  No,  not  that  — "  and  for  once  only  the  words  and  not 
his  tones  were  ironical  — "  not  that.  If  it  were  just  that 
she  threw  me  over,  if  I  were  just  blighted  in  my  youth, — 
why  any  fool  would  know  the  proper  thing  to  do  in  such  a 
situation;  but  this  affair  is  more  original.  I'm  played 
out,  Rob.  This  girl  was  my  last  chance  to  get  some  grip 
on  life  and  hold  it.  And  it  wasn't  Mary  that  went  back 
on  me.  I  went  back  on  myself.  I  can't  keep  wanting 
her;  my  fingers  won't  hold;  I'm  slipping.  Pretty  soon 
I'll  drop." 

Robert  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  but  "  Nonsense !  " 
again.  "  Three  days  ago  you  were  as  keen  about  writing 
as  I  —  and  plain  besotted  over  Mary.  You'll  feel  dif- 
ferently in  the  morning." 

"  Christ  rose  in  three  days,  didn't  he  ? "  said  Johnny 
quietly.  "  It's  long  enough  for  really  vital  things.  The 
day  you  left  I  began  to  feel  shaky  about  journalism.  The 
next  day  it  went  to  ashes  in  my  mouth  —  dirty  ashes. 
To-day  this  letter  came.  Well,  I  let  it  lie  all  morning 
before  I  opened  it.  I  didn't  want  to  be  stirred  up  again. 
I  didn't  care.  I  don't  care  now.  She's  nothing  to  me 
but  a  character  study.  She  doesn't  warm  my  blood  one 
degree.  It  bores  me  even  to  think  about  her.  Nothing 
will  rouse  me  now.  I  bore  myself.  There's  my  curve, 
Rob.     You  see  where  it  leads.     You'd  better  let  me  go !  " 

Robert  shivered;  then  pulled  his  wits  together. 
"  You're  talking  like  a  case  of  nerves,  Johnny.     To-mor- 


206  OUR  HOUSE 

row  I'm  going  to  get  some  one  here  who  will  treat  you  as 
one.  Let  you  go!  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by 
that  ?  "  He  spoke  with  intensity.  "  I've  never  talked 
much  about  friendship  —  and  affection,  with  you ;  but  you 
can  bet  your  life  that  as  long  as  I'm  any  use  I  stand  by 
you, —  and  longer !  " 

Johnny  tossed  irritably.  "  Of  course  you  will, —  and 
so  will  she.  That's  the  trouble.  You're  so  confouDdedly 
short-sighted.  Don't  you  see  what  it  means?  Stage  I, 
bored.  Stage  II,  drink,  or  drugs,  or  women.  Stage  III, 
financial  wreck.  I  haven't  such  a  devil  of  a  lot,  you  know, 
and  there  are  ways  of  getting  around  a  trust.  Stage  IV, 
a  souse  down  into  bummery  or  worse,  and  you  pull  me  up 
by  the  collar.  Stage  V,  another  souse,  and  she  pulls  me 
up.  Last  stage  of  all,  down  again  I  go  and  drown  in  my 
own  puddle,  or  am  locked  up  for  the  good  of  society." 

"  A  beautiful,  morbid  picture,"  grunted  Robert  sar- 
castically, "  all  made  out  of  too  many  cigarettes  and  too 
much  solitude.  .  .  ."  He  talked  him  down.  He  could 
always  talk  Johnny  down  in  personal  discussions  because 
he  could  always  make  him  laugh  or  change  the  subject. 
But  this  time  Robert  merely  silenced  him.  With  a  sudden 
pang  of  foreboding  he  stammered  over  his  last  words  and 
lost  his  vantage  ground  of  cool  superiority.  "  Look  here, 
Johnny,  you  wouldn't  be  ass  enough  over  this  nothing  at 
all  to—" 

"  Carve  my  lily  throat  ?  Hear  the  bloody-minded  melo- 
dramatist!  Why,  man,  I've  given  you  my  formula, — 
though  I  can't  say  you  seem  to  grasp  it.  Blood's  messy ; 
poison's  theatrical;  gas  is  vulgar.  No,  I  like  your  way 
better ;  —  metamorphosis  into  the  body  of  a  soda-clerk ! 
Isn't  that  a  modern  form  of  suicide?  Or  transmutation 
into  a  darky  minstrel.  My  old  nurse  said  my  face  would 
be  my  fortune,  when  she  first  measured  my  mouth.     I 


NOT  WOUNDED,  SIRE  — BUT  DEAD      207 

never  saw  just  how  it  might,  before.  Only  — "  he 
dropped  his  flippancy  — "  I  can't  think  of  any  kind  of 
resurrection  in  which  I  shouldn't  have  to  work  at  some- 
thing,—  or  be  bored  again." 

He  looked  at  Robert  to  see  how  he  was  taking  it. 
"  Perhaps  we'll  stick  to  this  world  a  little  longer.  I've 
loved  you,  Robbie  —  in  my  fashion." 

Robert,  in  fact,  could  not  make  out  whether  he  was 
serious  or  not.  "  Blow  off  some  more  steam,"  he  said  at 
last,  remembering  Wixter's  protective  swearing. 

But  Johnny  was  done.  "  That  was  the  last  pound  of 
coal  but  one,  Rob.  I  need  what's  left.  Good-night " ; 
and  then  when  Robert  was  half  way  up  the  stairs,  "  Tell 
old  Bill  he  was  right  that  evening  on  the  window-seat. 
His  kind  are  always  right.  But  what  are  you  going  to 
do  when  you  start  with  a  proposition  like  me  8  All  sub- 
ject and  no  object !  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  anyway? — "  But  Johnny 
slammed  his  door. 

Robert  tried  to  still  a  growing  apprehension.  "  Na- 
ture's sweet  restorer, —  talk,"  he  mused  with  irony  a  little 
forced.  "  He'll  be  another  Johnny  in  the  morning." 
Nevertheless,  now  that  he  saw  his  own  way  clear  he  must 
try  harder,  more  sympathetically,  to  pull  Johnny  out  of  his 
rut.  One  man's  problem  after  all,  he  reflected  com- 
placently, was  pretty  much  like  another's.  The  will  was 
all.  He  must  think  more  of  those  at  home,  too.  There 
also  he  had  been  selfish.  With  slowly  subsiding  fears  he 
thought  on  steadily  toward  new  plans  and  a  new  year. 


CHAPTER  XI 

TERRA    INCOGNITA 

IN"  the  gray  of  late  sunrise,  Robert  was  dreaming  of 
Johnny,  who  stirred  a  chocolate  soda  with  a  tooth- 
brush while  Wixter  shouted  impotent,  soundless  words. 
Johnny's  voice  was  in  his  ears.  He  thought  he  saw  him 
standing  at  the  door,  a  different  Johnny,  pale,  almost  ten- 
der, gently  humorous.  Uncertain  whether  it  was  dream 
or  waking,  he  thought  that  he  stretched  forth  a  hand  from 
the  covers.  But  when  his  eyes  were  fully  opened  there  was 
no  Johnny,  no  sound  in  the  house,  only  a  warmth  of 
friendliness  in  his  breast  that  he  could  not  explain.  He 
slept  again;  woke  with  a  start;  jumped  out  of  bed  and 
rushed  downstairs.  Johnny's  room  was  empty,  bare. 
His  trunk  stood  in  the  middle,  packed  but  not  shut.  On 
the  lid  a  sheet  of  paper  fluttered  in  the  draft  from  the 
open  window.  He  jerked  it  from  the  engaging  strap,  and 
read: 

"  Official  Statement :  Mr.  John  Bolt  left  his  rooms  in 
Washington  Square  early  on  the  morning  of  August  15th, 
and  has  not  since  been  located.  He  was  suffering  from 
nervous  difficulties;  and  it  is  believed  that  his  memory 
had  become  a  blank.  No  foul  play  is  probable  since  he 
took  with  him  very  little  money.  No  trace  of  his  where- 
abouts can  be  found.  He  is  (here  insert  description). 
Most  noticeable  feature,  a  big,  ugly  mouth.  Unofficial: 
I  told  you,  Rob,  that  I  was  going  to  experiment  with  liv- 
ing for  the  sake  of  just  living.     Well,   the  experiment 

failed.     Now  I'm  going  in  for  another.     I've  got  to  shake 

208 


TERRA  INCONGNITA  209 

you,  old  man,  to  do  it.  I  know  it's  a  dirty  trick ;  but  that 
can't  be  helped.  Mary  knows  me  too  well  to  think  that 
she's  to  blame  for  this.  If  she  had  been  fool  enough  to 
take  me,  that  would  have  been  a  mess.  Don't  waste  your 
time  looking  for  me.  The  odds  are  all  against  you.  And 
don't  regret  a  fine  intellect  gone  to  waste  —  and  all  that 
rot.  Just  say  he  lived  not  wisely  but  too  well,  and  give 
me  credit  for  stepping  out  for  fear  of  spoiling  the  epitaph. 
Take  over  my  stuff,  won't  you?  I  shan't  need  much 
where  I'm  going,  except  philosophy  and  a  sense  of  humor. 
Good-by,  Rob." 

Robert  did  not  hesitate  an  instant.  His  course  of  ac- 
tion was  determined  before  he  had  read  the  last  word, 
before  his  heart  had  ceased  throbbing.  Whether  it  was 
suicide  or  some  other  counsel  of  desperation,  this  letter 
meant  action;  and  on  the  rare  occasions  when  Johnny 
acted,  things  happened  quick'y.  He  had  the  police  sta- 
tions and  a  detective  bureau  at  work  in  ten  minutes.  In 
ten  more  he  had  questioned  the  house,  and  every  shop 
about  the  Square.  The  trail  ran  easily.  Johnny  had 
passed  the  drug-store  at  7:00  o'clock;  then  down  by  the 
newsstand;  stood  on  the  corner  by  Jim  Rogan's  saloon, 
waiting;  had  taken  a  car.  The  trail  was  lost.  They  be- 
gan upon  the  hotel  list.  Found.  He  had  entered  an  up- 
town hotel  at  7:30,  and  was  now  in  his  room.  With  a 
detective,  Robert  dashed  up-town  in  a  hansom.  They 
knocked  on  his  door,  opened  it, —  the  room  was  empty  save 
for  another  piece  of  paper.  "  No  use,  Rob.  Don't  waste 
your  time."  He  had  carried  nothing  with  him  to  his 
room.  No  one  had  seen  him  leave  it.  They  were 
blocked. 

At  five,  Robert  dragged  home,  miserable,  unthinking. 
In  the  hall  Mary  Sharpe  was  waiting  for  him,  a  pallid 


210  OUK  HOUSE 

figure  clenching  the  newel  post.  "  Nothing  ?  "  Her  eyes 
filled.  "  Look  " —  she  held  out  a  letter  — "  I  knew  some- 
thing would  happen  —  I  came  —  too  late." 

It  was  just  a  scrawl.  "  John  Bolt,  bankrupt.  Assets, 
Robert  Eoberts  and  yourself.     Liabilities,  himself." 

What  could  we  have  done,  Mary  ? "  groaned  Robert 
Roberts.     "  He  didn't  love  you  —  enough ;  nor  me  either." 

She  turned  upon  him  almost  fiercely.  "  He  was  fond 
enough  of  you, —  if  only  you  had  tried  harder  to  save 
him.  You  were  always  thinking  of  your  book,  and  of 
what  you  were  going  to  do.  You  gave  him  no  help ;  — 
only  shamed  him.  As  if  he  wasn't  worth  more  than  a 
hundred  Mary  Doones !  "  Her  eyes  blazed.  "  You've 
been  inhuman,  Robert  Roberts." 

He  took  her  hand  gently.  "  Not  inhuman,  Mary ;  only 
—  still  not  quite  grown  up.     But  you  are  right." 

"  Of  course  I  am  right,"  she  cried  unsteadily.  "  I  un- 
derstood him  so  much  better  than  you  did." 

"  Why  didn't  you  help  him  then  ?  "  he  answered  in  sud- 
den defensive  anger.  "  Wasn't  that  selfishness,  too  ?  I 
had  my  work.  You  had  your  pride.  In  spite  of  what  he 
says,  you  might  have  saved  him." 

The  blood  flamed  into  her  face.  She  fought  for  self- 
control.  "  Oh,  Robert,  I  couldn't.  Don't  blame  me." 
She  turned  away  from  his  glance.  "  I  couldn't  and  stay 
honest  with  him  and  with  —  you.  It  was  that  I  came  to 
tell  him." 

Her  tone  troubled  him.  "  Tell  me,"  he  commanded, 
but  she  shook  her  head  mutely.  Then  he  saw  that  they 
were  wrangling  while  time  and  opportunity  were  flying, 
touched  her  shoulder  to  show  that  he  regretted  his  ve- 
hemence, and  hurried  into  the  story  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  what  they  still  might  do. 

"  You  will  not  find  him,"  she  said  quietly,  when  he  had 


TEKKA  ItfCONGNITA  211 

finished.  "  But  all  means  must  be  tried.  Have  you 
enough  money  ? " 

u  No,"  he  answered,  humiliated,  flushing. 

M  Oh,  I  have  plenty  now.  Isn't  that  lucky !  "  She 
drew  a  check.  "  When  you  have  done  your  best,  you  will 
write  me  ?  " 

"  I'll  write  you  every  day  while  I'm  searching.  But 
when  it's  all  over  I  am  coming  home." 

"  To  work  in  Millingtown  ?  "  She  looked  her  astonish- 
ment. 

"  To  live  in  Millingtown,"  answered  Kobert  Roberts. 
"  I  can  work  anywhere  now." 


BOOK  III 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    LULL. 

WHEN  Kobert  Koberts  came  back  to  Millingtown  and 
saw  from  the  window  of  the  train  the  familiar  hill 
crowded  with  houses,  and  the  tree  tops  of  the  river  valley 
where  was  home,  a  thunder  cloud,  like  a  purple  continent, 
was  hanging  over  all  the  west,  while  behind  the  court- 
house belfry  and  the  tiny  roofs  of  the  hillslope  narrow  seas 
of  green  jade  shone  balefully.  On  the  long  brick  rows, 
flowing  downward  toward  his  slackening  train,  the  light 
fell  eerily,  making  their  sordid  lengths  to  glow  with  rose. 
There  was  a  pallor  as  of  earnestness  on  the  hurrying  faces 
in  the  streets ;  and  through  rain-flecked  windows  he  looked 
into  dim-lit,  hidden  rooms  where  families  talked  together 
huddled  away  from  the  wind  and  the  wet.  It  was  a  richer, 
stranger,  more  intimate  Millingtown.  As  he  stepped  from 
the  car  at  his  corner,  the  silver  maples  beyond  "  our  " 
house,  now  no  more  a  haven,  were  whitening  and  straining 
at  their  trunks,  lightning  stabbed  the  green  sky,  and  a  great 
gust  blew  him  around  the  corners  and  into  Cousin  Jenny's. 

They  met  him  at  the  door  —  his  mother  and  Cousin 
Jenny  —  hurrying  him  out  of  his  wet  garments  with 
anxious  solicitude;  and  beneath  it  all  an  undercurrent  of 
pity  and  love  that  made  him  hug  them  both. 

"  Nothing  ?  "  his  mother  asked  gently,  v  hen  at  last  he 
was  dry  and  sound  again. 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered  sadly.  u  I've  run  down 
every  clue." 

215 


216  OUR  HOUSE 

Cousin  Jenny  snorted  in  confirmation. 

"  I  knew  it.  The  immigrants  did  it ;  or  those  wicked 
.New  York  police.  They've  murdered  him.  Oh,  Robbie, 
I'm  so  glad  thee's  safe  at  home !  " 

It  did  not  seem  worth  while  to  tell  them  all  the  story. 
And  what  was  there  to  tell,  except  baffling  perplexity,  vain 
search,  and  no  help,  no  credible  guess  as  to  a  solution. 
"  I'm  tired,"  he  said,  speaking  what  was  uppermost. 
"  I'm  glad  to  be  home  with  you  two." 

They  mothered  him,  put  him  in  slippers  and  a  dress- 
ing-gown, had  waffles  for  supper,  and  talked  of  Johnny's 
Irish  mouth,  of  his  laugh,  of  the  clever  sparring  with 
Cousin  Jenny  when  he  came  to  visit  in  college  vacations ; 
of  his  love  for  their  boy  that  made  up  for  all  they  did  not 
understand. 

"  Why,  I  believe  you  were  fonder  of  him  than  his  own 
relatives !  "  Robert  said  gratefully,  in  the  pause  when  the 
waffles  were  changing.  "  You  should  see  their  letters. 
1  It  was  bound  to  happen.'  l  We  suppose  it  couldn't  be 
helped  ' —  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  New  England !  "  sniffed  Cousin  Jenny,  and  pursed 
her  lips. 

The  storm  passed  into  cool  afterglow,  but  familiar- 
strangeness  still  brooded  over  Millingtown.  They  sat  on 
the  back  porch  beside  the  great  magnolia  dripping  mu- 
sically from  its  drooped  leaves,  and  Robert's  heart  was 
loosened  in  the  dusk.  The  ache  in  his  memory  craved 
simple  humanity,  and  found,  and  was  bathed  in  it.  They 
talked  until  midnight,  first  of  Johnny,  then  of  sorrows, 
healed  or  hidden,  of  tragedies,  absurdities,  scandals,  in 
his  quiet  Millingtown,  until  he  gaped  with  amazement. 
Why  had  all  this  human  richness  been  hidden  from 
him!  He  felt  he  had  never  known  Cousin  Jenny,  no, 
nor  his  mother  intimately  until  then. 


THE  LULL  217 

"Why  thee  knows  he  would  climb  the  big  oak  every 
night  to  throw  a  kiss  to  her  —  and  so  Uncle  Jed  sawed 
the  limb  half  through.  Yes  —  right  down  into  the  cold 
frames.     It  was  brought  up  in  meeting — " 

As  the  talk  went  on  he  opened  his  mind  to  them,  told 
all  his  doubts,  his  fluctuations,  his  hopes,  while  Cousin 
Jenny  nodded.  At  last  —  very  haltingly  —  he  confessed 
his  sins.  "  I've  been  very  intolerant,  very  self-centered 
toward  you  two  as  well  as  Johnny";  and  at  last  peace- 
fully, happily,  climbed  up  the  high  stairs  to  bed. 

The  two  old  ladies  sat  on  beside  the  rustling  magnolia 
a  little  longer. 

"  He  did  not  speak  of  her,"  said  Mrs.  Eoberts  faintly. 

"  He  was  not  thinking  of  her  —  to-night,"  Cousin 
Jenny  answered,  and  wagged  her  wise  old  head. 

And  indeed  on  this  night  Robert  Roberts  had  forgotten 
that  Mary  Sharpe  was  waiting  behind  the  peace  of  Mill- 
ingtown. 

He  remembered  in  the  morning,  and  felt  his  blood  thrill 
with  the  questions  to  be  asked,  the  confidences  they  must 
have  together ;  then  learned  that  she  was  away  for  a  week, 
angered  a  little  that  she  could  so  lightly  shift  their  meet- 
ing and  the  last  word  of  his  search  for  Johnny,  opened  a 
letter,  and  forgot  her  again.  It  contained  a  check  from 
Crowfoot.  Somebody  had  bought  a  story !  "  Not  much 
of  a  story,"  he  explained  gruffly  to  hide  his  exaltation, 
"  but  a  cent  a  word  anyhow.  If  I  can  write  good  words 
at  that  rate — "  he  hurried  upstairs  and  locked  himself 
in  at  his  desk,  while  the  women  fluttered. 

George  sang  as  he  swept  the  carpets: 

"  Gabriel  toots  his  golden  horn  — 

See  all  de  angels. 
Satan  wisht  he  never  wuz  born  — 

On  dat  Judgment  Day, 


218  OUR  HOUSE 

God  riz  up  in  power  and  might  — 

See  clouds  uv  glory. 

Satan  sunk  clean  out  o'  sight  — 

On  dat  Judgment  Day." 

Locusts  droned  in  the  maples,  his  pen  flew,  ideas  kept 
springing.  The  sense  of  loss,  of  hard-won  experience,  of 
something  owed  to  simple  humanity,  kept  his  thoughts 
warm,  his  imagination  true.  He  would  atone.  He 
would  atone  for  his  coldness  in  the  only  way  permitted. 
He  would  feel  true  and  write  true.  Life  shaped  itself 
ahead.  Friendship  and  affection  first;  work  afterwards. 
He  fingered  his  check.  One  of  these  a  month  would  keep 
him  going.  His  imagination  strayed  down  quiet  garden 
lanes  with  here  a  seat  for  high  talk  with  Mary ;  and  there 
a  gate  leading  out  into  the  world  and  back  again  to  peace 
and  work;  and  everywhere  simple  human  figures  smiling, 
praising  his  resolution  to  let  the  captains  and  the  kings  de- 
part, and  the  shouting  and  the  tumult  die,  while  he  in  his 
pleached  garden  sought  content  and  the  satisfaction  of 
good  work.  Then  from  the  mist  of  dreams  Johnny's  mel- 
ancholy face  would  gloom  upon  him,  he  would  suppress  a 
spasm  of  grief,  brush  it  all  aside,  and  fall  to. 

Five  days  he  wrote,  turning  off  a  story,  a  little  essay, 
and  a  tentative  poem;  then  on  Saturday  at  noon  laid 
down  his  pen,  and  came  down  to  lunch  serene  of  mood  and 
joyful  in  heart.  Cousin  Tom  was  there,  ponderous,  pro- 
saic, suspicious.  But  not  even  his  literal  mind  could 
daunt  Robert's  spirits. 

When  he  had  gone,  a  suspense  that  had  been  brooding 
over  that  luncheon  became  manifest.  Robert  shook  it 
off,  but  it  came  back.  They  were  excited,  those  women. 
What  was  it  ?  His  mother  dropped  and  broke  a  glass  — 
one  of  the  Binker  glasses,  too!  And  then  through  the 
window  beyond  him  he  saw  a  shutter  in  the  house  behind 


THE  LULL  219 

the  garden  swing  open  and  click  on  its  fastening,  a  sash 
go  up.     Mary  was  home ! 

"  Tell  her  we've  missed  her,"  said  Cousin  Jenny,  with 
a  wry  grin. 

Miss  Sharpens  black  Matilda  had  blocked  the  entrance 
way  with  a  pile  of  rugs.  He  hurdled  them,  laughing  at 
her  "  Good  Lan',  Mister  Robert,"  and  swung  into  the  li- 
brary unannounced.  Mary  was  dusting  the  copy  from  Car- 
paccio  that  hung  over  the  mantel-piece.  She  turned  at 
his  footsteps,  but  did  not  grasp  his  warm,  outstretched 
hand.     u  Mary  —  what  have  you  done  ?  "  he  stammered. 

Her  hair  was  down  upon  her  neck  in  the  new  fashion. 
Her  dress  was  white,  more  simple ;  —  there  were  other 
changes  too  subtle  for  him;  but  she  looked  younger,  she 
looked  girlish.  An  amethyst  flashed  upon  her  breast. 
"  Do  you  like  me  —  this  way  ?  "  she  asked  demurely,  her 
hands  behind  her,  her  back  to  the  Carpaccio. 

"  Yes, —  but  why  %  "  For  an  instant  he  was  surprised 
into  pleasure.  She  was  so  fresh,  so  beautiful.  Then  a 
sense  of  betrayal  flushed  him  into  anger.  "  It  isn't  a 
time  for  dressing  up,"  he  said  stiffly.  "  Where  were  you 
while  I  was  searching  for  him  ?  You  did  not  answer  my 
letters.  Don't  you  care  ?  "  He  had  forgotten  that  for  a 
week  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  reproach  her. 

Mary's  face  flushed  in  answer.  "  Care !  "  she  answered 
slowly.  "  There's  no  use  caring  for  the  past  is  there  %  — 
I  mean  no  more  than  you  can  help.  I  cried  all  the  night 
you  left  me  there  in  New  York.  Then  I  tried  not  to 
care.     Is  that  disloyal  ?  " 

He  brushed  away  the  question.  "  It  isn't  what  we 
think,  it's  what  we  do  to  find  him  that  matters.  I  came 
home  because  I  was  stumped ;  but  I  thought  that  you  might 
have  been  planning."  He  knew  that  he  was  unjust,  but 
let  the  words  stand. 


220  OUR  HOUSE 

"  He's  dead/'  said  Mary  Sharpe  with  simple  conviction. 
"  Don't  you  see  that  it  was  so  much  easier  than  living  for 
him ;  and  he'd  take  the  easiest  way.     I  hnow  he  would." 

"  But  we've  searched  — " 

She  flashed  at  him  ironically.  "  Do  you  think  you 
could  trace  me  if  I  wanted  to  go?  I've  thought  of  a 
dozen  ways.     No,  he's  dead." 

"  Dead  or  alive,"  said  Robert  Roberts,  "  I  can't  be 
happy  about  it."  He  glanced  with  unreasoning  humor 
at  her  hair,  at  the  flower  in  her  waist. 

"  But  I  am  happy  —  for  myself,"  she  answered 
proudly.  "  I  thought  I  was  like  him ;  that  nothing  could 
really  move  me.  But  I'm  not.  I'm  not."  She  lifted 
her  dark  eyes,  soft  now  and  fathomless.  "  His  death 
melted  something  in  my  mind.  Look  at  me " —  she 
turned  slowly  before  him.  "  I'm  younger  —  I'm  really 
young  again." 

Robert  clung  to  his  irritation.  "We  can't  just  use 
Johnny,  like  that." 

"  It  would  please  him,"  she  answered  simply,  and  he 
felt  that  her  words  were  true.  Then  in  a  change  of  mood 
she  dropped  to  the  divan  and  beckoned  him  down  beside 
her.  "  I  can  be  a  real  friend  to  you  now.  Before  I  was 
only  i  teacher.'  Oh,  you  must  let  me  help  you  always  in 
your  life."  She  pressed  his  hand  convulsively,  until  her 
fingers  whitened.  Puzzled,  but  deeply  moved  by  her 
emotion,  he  returned  the  pressure,  thrilling  to  the  intimacy 
of  the  moment.  Then,  "  let's  talk  now,"  she  cried,  caught 
at  her  dusting  cloth,  and  went  at  the  Carpaccio.  "  Talk," 
she  said,  blushing.  "  Robert  Roberts,  talk  quickly."  The 
amethyst  flashed  richly  in  the  mirror  beneath  the  picture. 
A  prickling  suspicion  came  to  Robert  that  he  was  being 
played  with.  Was  he  on  the  outside  of  life  again,  obtuse, 
as  always  ? 


THE  LULL  221 

"  What  did  you  mean,"  he  asked  slowly,  "  when  you  said 
in  New  York  that  you  could  not  marry  Johnny  because  you 
must  be  fair  —  to  me  ?  " 

"  Nothing."  She  bent  over  the  mantel  searching  metic- 
ulously for  dust. 

"  Turn  round  and  say  so."  The  youth  in  ner  made  him 
domineering.  He  did  not  think  or  care  where  his  ques- 
tions led. 

She  turned  slowly,  her  profile  chaste,  cool,  fine. 
"  Nothing,"  she  spoke  with  bell-like  clearness,  "  unless  — 

you"- 

u  Stop  dodging,  Mary.     Tell  me." 

She  feinted  once  more.     "  You  have  no  right  — " 

"  Eight !  "  he  warmed  to  it.  "  What  do  I  care  about 
right!" 

Mary  Sharpe  crossed  her  arms  upon  her  breast  as  if  to 
hold  back  a  struggling  spirit.  Then  with  sudden  abandon 
she  flung  them  apart,  and  glowed  upon  him.  "  Why  can't 
I  love  you !  "  she  cried.  "  I  will.  I  will.  I  will.  I 
don't  want  any  return.  I  don't,"  as  he  tried  to  catch  her 
hand.  "  I'm  happy  enough  as  it  is.  Oh,  Robbie,"  and 
with  warm  swiftness  she  kissed  him,  and  then  drew  back, 
"  let  me  talk  now.  Let  me  tell  you.  It's  making  me  live 
again.  Oh,  even  the  pain  of  it  is  happiness  —  like  the 
sorrow  for  Johnny  —  Oh,  don't  you  understand !  " 

Robert  was  dizzy.  It  was  like  the  burst  of  a  lava  flow. 
But  his  spirit  fired  to  meet  hers.  u  I'm  not  worth  it, 
Mary." 

She  shook  her  hair  back  with  the  motion  half  prim,  half 
impatient  he  knew  so  well;  then  poured  into  speech. 
"  You  thought  I  was  old,  Robbie.  I  wasn't.  I  was  just 
suppressed.  I'm  a  hundred  years  younger  than  you  with 
your  writing,  and  your  ideals  of  life,  and  all  that.  Johnny 
wakened  me,  and  then  I  found  I  was  alive  for  you.     Oh,  if 


222  OUR  HOUSE 

you  hated  me  now,  dear,  I'd  love  you.     Poor  boy  —  he's 
so  embarrassed." 

But  the  struggle  in  his  mind  was  too  sharp  for  calfish- 
ness.  "  No,"  he  said  with  painful  honesty,  "  not  embar- 
rassed, only  confused.  For  I  admire  you  so,  Mary,  and 
I'm  so  fond  of  you  that  — " 

"  Fond  of  me  —  yes  —  that's  all,"  the  strange  girl  inter- 
rupted eagerly.  "  That's  safer.  Oh,  I  was  so  afraid  that 
you'd  pretend  to  love  me  — " 

He  silenced  her,  "  That  I  think  in  a  moment  I'm  going 
to  love  you  without  any  pretending." 

"  No,  no,"  she  whispered  and  put  the  couch  between 
them.  "  Don't  touch  me,  Eobbie,  or  you  won't  see  clear, 
as  I  do.  You're  my  friend.  You're  not  my  lover.  Don't 
dare  to  kiss  me  back  again !  " 

They  both  laughed,  and  in  the  break  of  mood,  Robert 
grasped  his  honesty  and  held  it. 

"  You  see,"  he  said  hesitantly,  "  I've  always  rever- 
enced you,  Mary.  You've  always  mothered  me,  intellec- 
tually. Now  you  break  loose.  And  I  —  I'm  afraid  of 
being  dishonest  either  way.  I  don't  know,"  he  clenched 
his  fist  angrily,  "  if  there  can  be  any  feeling  deeper  than 
that  I  have  for  you ;  and  yet,  when  I  say  '  I  love  you,'  I 
want  to  say  it  as  you  said  it  to  me  just  now." 

It  was  clear  that  she  was  scarcely  heeding  him.  Indeed 
throughout  this  curious  love  scene  Robert  had  a  feeling 
that  he  was  only  a  stage  property,  like  the  consecrated 
sword  before  which  the  operatic  heroine  pours  out  her 
rhapsodies.  It  was  only  she  that  was  free  to  act.  His 
part  was  pre-determined. 

"  I  know,  I  know  all  that,"  she  pleaded.  "  It's  of  no 
importance.  Just  let  me  tell  you  about  myself.  Give  me 
that  privilege  of  a  lover.  Do  you  remember  when  you 
came  home  from  college,  so  straight  and  ruddy,  and  spoke 


THE  LULL  223 

to  me  under  the  grape  arbor?  I  nearly  cried  then  I 
wanted  so  to  feel  life  as  you  felt  it;  and  I  was  so  cold, 
so  formal.  But  afterward  Johnny  — "  her  eyes  misted  — 
"  Johnny  made  me  tear  at  my  heart  to  pull  away  the  stones. 
They  would  not  move ;  but  one  day  in  New  York,  when  you 
were  just  back  from  the  country,  your  eyes  smiling,  why 
they  were  gone !  And  then  sorrow, —  and  now,"  she 
touched  his  arm  timidly,  "  this." 

She  touched  his  heart  also,  but  a  cold  and  stinging 
thought  checked  his  response.  "  Johnny,"  he  asked  in 
trepidation,  "  did  he  guess  I  Was  that  the  reason  he 
went !  " 

She  was  full  of  surprises.  "  Of  course  he  guessed," 
she  said.  a  It  was  he  that  told  me.  You  never  knew  how 
quick  he  could  be  at  understanding  other  people.  That's 
why  he  understood  himself  so  well.  He  told  me,  just  when 
I  was  trying  hardest  to  —  love  him :  I  —  well,  I  flew  out 
at  him;  and  then  I  knew  he  was  right.  Then  we  said 
that  it  was  just  suppressed  mother  love.  We  said  that  it 
should  make  no  difference  if  we  could  —  Oh,  well,  wake  to 
each  other.  We  said  —  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  else  fool- 
ish we  said.  And  Robbie,  you  must  believe  me,  it  did 
make  no  difference  to  him."  She  knelt  on  the  sofa  plead- 
ingly. "  He  found  he  couldn't  care  for  me.  That  was 
the  reason.  Not  the  loss  of  me,  but  of  himself.  He  was 
good  enough,"  she  laughed  mirthlessly,  "  to  think  that  if 
he  couldn't  care  for  me  he  couldn't  care  for  anything.  And 
so  he  went.  Oh,  Robbie,"  she  writhed  in  agony  against 
her  past,  "  can't  we  forget,  not  him,  but  all  that  misery ! 
I  want  to  feel,  just  to  feel  simply.  That's  all  I  want.  I'm 
tired  of  struggling  for  what  I  can't  have."  Her  eyes 
begged  of  him,  until  he  burned  for  shame.  "  Don't  think 
I'm  a  fool,  or  abnormal.  It's  so  simple,  the  thing  I  want. 
Just  to  talk  to  you  now  and  then,  with  my  heart  open. 


224  OUK  HOUSE 

Just  to  be  unashamed.  I've  been  locked  up  all  my  life." 
Sitting  beside  him  she  bent  over  his  knees  weeping.  He 
touched  her  hair  soothingly,  awed  by  the  intimacy,  the 
depth  of  her  self-revelation,  not  trusting  himself  to  speak, 
lest  he  should  belie  the  affection  and  the  pity  and  the  won- 
der that  he  felt. 

Jim  the  terrier  wandered  in,  sniffed  at  her  wet  face,  then 
pawed  apprehensively.  She  laughed,  straightened,  and 
with  a  fleeting  look  at  his  face,  was  herself  again.  u  Let's 
have  tea,  even  if  it  is  early.  And  I  think  I'll  smoke.  I 
never  have  in  public  before,  but  now  you're  one  of  the  fam- 
ily." She  rose  a  little  uncertainly.  "  I  just  had  to 
burst  out  —  but  don't  be  afraid.  I've  some  mind  left, 
though  it's  watery.     Now  I  can  live  on,  in  Millingtown!  " 

Eobert  felt  that  something  had  to  be  said  if  he  were  to 
preserve  his  self-respect.  It  hung  on  his  lips.  "  Go  on," 
she  murmured  comfortably,  "  I  know." 

"  You  are  more  to  me  than  any  one  else,  Mary."  He 
tightened  his  grip  on  crude  honesty.  a  That's  as  far  as 
I  can  see.  I  don't  understand  my  love  machinery  —  It's 
complex."  When  he  had  spoken  he  passionately  wished 
to  unsay  it,  but  his  tongue  was  locked. 

Her  eyes  glowed.  "  Oh,  I've  waited  for  this !  Now 
let's  talk  about  you.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  yourself  — 
emotionally  I  mean.  You  have,  my  dear,  the  simplicity 
of  a  South-Sea  Islander  combined  with  the  resolution  of  a 
seventeenth-century  Puritan.  In  short,  you  are  a  Quaker. 
And  that  makes  you  difficult."  But  Robert  did  not  want 
to  talk  about  his  emotional  self.  It  was  already  stirred 
too  painfully.  In  a  Quakerish  panic  he  hurried  away 
from  the  personal  reference  and  into  the  spell  of  this  new 
intimacy.  Love,  or  no  love,  his  s^ul  had  been  lonely,  had 
been  hungry  for  emotional  companionship.  And  now  her 
mind  —  so  rare,  so  quickly,  deeply  moving  fluttered  open 


THE  LULL  225 

at  his  touch.  He  hung  greedily  upon  her  confidences; 
plunged  giddily  into  a  reality  more  vivid  and  more  intri- 
cate than  his  own.  The  portentous  birth  of  honesty  over 
which  he  had  labored  so  mightily,  the  timorous  doubt,  the 
question  whether  or  no  he  loved  her,  became  undertones  to 
this  vivid  experience. 

When  the  hazy  September  twilight  dreamt  through  the 
maples,  he  said  good-by,  stepped  uncertainly  past  our  house 
with  its  alien  dwellers,  then  turned  back,  and  cut  through 
the  Sharpe  yard  toward  Cousin  Jenny's.  It  seemed  im- 
perative to  keep  safe  for  awhile  from  casual  meeting  or 
familiar  talk  the  sense  of  intimate  companionship  and 
sacred  confidence.  Beyond  the  grape  arbor  he  swung  him- 
self up  on  the  old  board  fence,  balanced,  and  let  his  heels 
dangle  boy  fashion.  It  was  a  temptation  to  dream ;  but  he 
did  not  feel  like  dreaming.  Intimacy  with  woman  was 
intoxicating  him.  Its  heady  vapors  made  his  cheeks  flush, 
his  heart  beat  sweetly.  He  was  weary  of  reserving  himself 
for  some  dim  if  rosy  future.  Must  he  always  hold  off 
reality  because  it  was  not  the  romantic  reality  he  had 
dreamed  of?  For  what  ideal  of  unrealizable  love  was  he 
carrying  the  cup  of  his  youth  so  carefully,  afraid  to  taste, 
afraid  to  spill  a  drop  of  it?  Was  it  Katherine  Gray? 
The  name  bore  misgivings  with  it,  but  had  no  commanding 
spell  for  him  to-day.  Was  he  intrinsically  cold?  He 
shook  his  fist  at  the  gray  old  houses  slumbering  in  the  apri- 
cot light  of  afterglow.  "  Damn  you  and  your  cautious 
inhibitions.  I've  got  to  break  loose  from  Quakerism  and 
let  myself  go."  Shame  burnt  in  him  that  she  —  so  proud 
and  self-contained  —  had  broken  through  the  ice  of  her 
reserve,  while  all  he  could  do  in  answer  was  to  babble  the 
limits  he  set  upon  his  love.  "  Am  I  a  prude,  or  a  hopeless 
sentimentalist  ?  "  he  mused. 

And  then  through  his  screen  of  grape  tendrils  he  saw 


226  OUR  HOUSE 

her  standing  upon  the  back  porch,  her  clear  features  aglow 
with  light.  Unconscious  of  his  eyes,  she  flung  back  her 
arms  as  if  to  open  her  heart  to  the  warmth  of  the  sunset. 
The  glory  of  the  act  stirred  him ;  the  pathos  caught  at  his 
throat.  "  I'm  worth  taking  now,  if  you  want  me,"  she 
seemed  to  be  saying.  She  went  in.  He  descended;  and 
walked  home  through  the  shadows,  musing  on  the  richness, 
the  sacredness  of  human  nature,  prayerful  in  mood,  won- 
dering again  if  this  sudden  intimacy  that  had  been  vouch- 
safed him  was  not  better  than  love,  was  not  after  all  the 
best. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    PLUNGE 

THAT  evening  he  escaped  from  three-cornered  bridge, 
and  found  her  in  dim  starlight,  sitting  on  the  bench 
behind  the  lilacs.  The  mood  of  reverence  still  held  him. 
He  was  ready  to  accuse  himself  of  all  the  crimes  of  egoism ; 
but  she  was  too  quick  for  him. 

"  Laugh,  laugh  quickly,  or  Matilda  will  think  it  is  one 
of  her  darkeys.  She  flirts  here  each  night  with  a  different 
one.  Don't  you  wish  that  our  emotions  were  as  simple  as 
theirs  ?  " 

And  so  they  talked  of  our  emotions.  She  told  him  of 
her  only  love  affair;  frozen  at  birth.  He  suppressed  a 
sense  of  disloyalty  and  told  her  a  little  shame-facedly  of 
Katherine  Gray;  but  after  all  told  only  half  the  story. 
There  was  a  new  way  she  had  of  talking  —  eager,  humor- 
ous —  that  tickled  his  vanity.  She  was  so  complex,  so 
unexpected,  and  yet  so  companionable;  somehow  he  and 
she  in  their  dark  corner  seemed  to  look  out  and  down  upon 
the  world.  They  were  free  folk,  he  thought  —  forgetting 
that  he  had  done  nothing  to  free  himself, —  they  were 
emancipated  from  prejudice,  laughing  boldly  but  not 
harshly,  serene  in  self-confidence  and  intimacy.  The  stars 
outside  twinkled  merrily,  a  little  ironically  upon  Milling- 
town,  and  so  did  they  as  they  talked.  His  struggle  to  give 
up  the  far-away  dream  of  love-at-first-sight  began  to  seem 
faintly  ridiculous.  The  passions  of  the  afternoon  were 
like  past  thunderstorms  best  remembered  by  the  tranquil 
freedom  of  gently  stirring  airs. 

227 


228  OUK  HOUSE 

"  I  never  knew  you  could  laugh  that  way,  Mary." 

"  I  never  could  with  any  one  but  Johnny.  Oh,  if  he 
had  only  kept  to  laughing !  "  She  drew  her  breath  in 
sharply  then  leaned  and  stroked  his  forehead.  "  Can't  we 
stay  just  as  we  are,  you  and  I,  the  world  remembering,  by 
the  world  forgot  ?  "     There  was  doubt  in  her  voice. 

But  the  night  had  lulled  his  conscience.  "  I  like  it," 
he  answered  drowsily.  "  I  say,  Mary,  what  would  Barrie 
do  with  Millingtown.  Can't  you  hear  him  describe  Sun- 
day morning?  Can't  you  see  what  he'd  do  with  Cousin 
John?  How  he  would  trick  them  all  off,  all  but  Cousin 
Jenny.  She  goes  deeper  than  satire.  You  and  she  have 
the  two  best  brains  in  Millingtown.  I  used  to  think  that 
it  was  weight  of  brains  that  made  her  head  waggle  so  when 
she  scolds.  I  wrote  one  really  honest  paragraph  to-day, 
Mary — " 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Robert  Roberts  was  happy. 
All  day,  and  week  after  week  he  carried  with  him  the 
sense  of  intimate  companionship  waiting  when  he  should 
cross  the  garden  at  night.  It  toned  his  spirits,  healed  his 
mental  wounds,  made  him  normal.  He  got  into  tennis 
again,  and  sweated  happily  from  four  to  six  every  day  at 
the  club.  He  planned  a  novel  easily  and  began  it  with 
a  cool  pen  and  a  vision  controlled  yet  keen.  Crowfoot 
sent  another  check.  A  little  hesitantly  he  stepped  out  into 
Millingtown,  renewed  friendships,  made  a  merry  call  or 
two,  found  it  easy  to  let  himself  down  to  the  plane  of 
thoughtless,  bourgeois  life.  With  Mary  behind  it  all,  stir- 
ring, intricate,  intimate,  real  beyond  measure,  he  found  he 
could  be  familiar  and  friendly  and  trivial  with  much  com- 
fort. He  threw  himself  into  the  study  of  this  pleasant 
community  drifting  along  through  time,  so  unconscious  of 
the  world  problems  lying  like  abysses  on  every  side  of  its 
easy  course,  so  obstinately  unconscious  of  the  intensities 


THE  PLUNGE  229 

below  the  calm  surface.  He  could  only  guess  at  the  inten- 
sities, but  the  powerful  conventions  that  held  them  down 
were  increasingly  visible,  even  to  his  sympathetic  eye. 

Mary  gave  him  the  self-confidence  and  the  detachment 
which  in  earlier  days  he  had  lacked.  Life  pained,  or 
thrilled,  or  inspired  him.  He  hated,  he  loved,  he  despised, 
and  was  proud  of  Millingtown.  It  was  true  that  life,  ex- 
cept their  life,  bored  her.  But  both  agreed  in  this  —  it 
was  the  looker-on  who  was  the  seer  and  the  artist.  Both 
felt  (so  he  thought)  that  when  two  in  strong  mental  sym- 
pathy could  look  on  together,  that  was  a  reasonable  approx- 
imation of  perfect  happiness.  He  clung  to  his  delusion  of 
permanency,  and  saw  her  every  day  and  many  nights. 
His  future  stopped  bothering  him,  for  it  seemed  within 
his  grasp.  He  forgot  that  she  was  in  love  with  him.  So 
it  went  through  all  October. 

The  old  "  crowd  "  of  his  friends  had  taken  to  the  new 
Country  Club,  and  he  followed  them  there.  Now  that  he 
was  free  from  the  menace  of  business,  he  liked  to  dip  back 
into  Philistia.  The  dips  grew  more  and  more  frequent. 
It  was  like  an  after  dinner  content  to  come  fresh  and  cool 
from  the  shower  into  some  circle  of  laughters,  and  call 
"  Hello,  Bill,"  "  Hello,  Jenny,"  "  Hello,  Martha,"  have  his 
horse's  neck  and  his  smoke  there,  and  toss  small-town  bad- 
inage. They  were  a  good  lot,  the  old  crowd,  especially  the 
newly  married  ones.  He  felt  a  little  awkward  with  the 
younger  girls,  impossible  to  explain  why.  It  was,  so  com- 
mon sense  told  him,  the  proper  relaxation  from  intellectual- 
ism.  And  so,  "  Bully !  "  cried  Robert  Roberts  walking 
home  over  the  dim  golf  course  in  early  November  dusk. 
"  Bully !  "  Life  seemed  to  have  arranged  itself  conveni- 
ently for  all  his  desires.     And  the  weeks  ran  on. 

When  Jenny  Warden  came  home  with  him,  he  could 
keep  the  laugh  going  as  far  as  her  corner,  shake  her  good, 


230  OUR  HOUSE 

hearty  hand,  smile  in  her  eyes;  and  be  in  the  mood  for 
Mary  before  he  had  sighted  the  silver  maples  of  the 
square. 

Jenny  used  to  play  in  the  backyard  of  "  our  house." 
"  You're  coming  back,  Rob,"  she  said  one  night  as  they 
parted. 

"  Back  ?  "  Robert  queried,  "  Tennis  form,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  jSTo,  sense.  You  don't  know  how  mooney  you  were  for 
a  while  after  you  came  to  town  again.  We  were  sorry. 
All  the  crowd  like  you." 

Robert  was  touched.  "  Thanks,  Jen.  I  want  you  to 
like  me.     Sure  I'm  not  '  mooney  '  now  ?  " 

She  hesitated,  then  risked  it.  "  Only  when  you're  with 
Mary  Sharpe." 

He  frowned  angrily.  Were  they  going  to  mix  in  there  ? 
But  crisp  November  exercise  was  warm  and  sweet  in  his 
blood;  and  he  liked  old  Jenny  too  much  to  quarrel  with 
her.  "  Don't  start  anything  like  that  going,  please,  Jen. 
Her  best  friend  was  my  best  friend.  She  and  I  are  — 
well,  we're  working  and  thinking  together.  That's  all." 
He  smiled  quaintly.  "  I  couldn't  love  Millingtown  half 
so  much  if  I  didn't  — "  the  quotation  was  inappropriate ; 
he  broke  it  off  hurriedly  — "  if  I  didn't  have  her  to  keep 
my  mind  going." 

Jenny  did  not  recognize  the  paraphrase ;  but  she  sniffed 
at  his  conclusion.  u  Your  mind !  — "  But  girls  can't  say 
what  they  wish  to  say,  even  to  boys  who  climbed  fences 
with  them.     And  so  they  drifted  back  to  tennis  talk  again. 

The  grip  of  her  muscular  hand  at  parting,  with  a  tingle 
of  healthy  affection  in  it,  sent  him  striding  homeward. 
A  good  sort,  the  old  crowd!  But  Mary?  A  suspicion 
of  unfaithfulness  made  him  walk  the  long  way  home  to  pass 
her  windows.     She  was  there,  on  the  side  porch  reading. 


THE  PLUNGE  231 

A  serious  face,  Mary's  —  it  occurred  to  him  that  they  had 
not  laughed  together  much  in  these  latter  weeks  —  and  a 
cold  tensity  in  her  graceful  figure  as  she  sat  there.  He 
shoved  the  country  club  into  its  mental  locker,  and  stepped 
up  to  greet  her.     "  What  are  you  reading  I     B.  Shaw  ?  " 

She  started  at  his  voice,  looking  vaguely,  almost  warily 
at  his  flushed  face  and  moistened  forehead. 

Suddenly  he  blurted  it  out,  half  laughing,  half  in  irrita- 
tion. "  Well,  they've  begun  to  tease  us.  Jenny  Warden 
thinks  I'm  mooney  —  she  means  spooney  —  with  you." 
The  words  were  crude;  he  regretted  them  too  late;  they 
seemed  to  cheapen  an  exquisitely  fine  relationship. 

If  Mary  Sharpe  felt  the  sting  she  did  not  show  it.  "  Do 
you  mind  ? "  she  asked  slowly.  "  Of  course  you  know 
I  don't." 

"  That's  it,"  he  answered.  "  If  they  can't  accept  us, 
I'll  have  to  drop  them ;  and  I  like  the  old  crowd.  They're 
so  hearty,  and  so  relaxing, —  after  writing,  you  know. 
But  this  — "  he  caught  her  eyes — "  comes  first." 

"  Robbie,"  she  cried  in  unexpected  pain,  "  I  won't  have 
you  lose  your  old  friends  on  my  account.  It's  not  natural, 
nor  healthy.  Couldn't  I  mix  more  with  them  ?  I  can  — " 
she  laughed  — "  control  my  tongue,  you  know  —  be  sweet, 
and  hearty,  and  all  that.     Would  it  help  ?  " 

Robert  was  touched.  "  I  don't  think  we  need  to  make 
concessions,  Mary.  They'll  get  accustomed  to  our  partner- 
ship after  a  while,  when  it  continues,  and  nothing  hap- 
pens — "  the  remark  sounded  fatuous  — "  nothing,  that  is, 
which  they  expect." 

A  glint  of  her  old  ironic  humor  flashed  for  a  second  into 
her  voice.  "  So  kind  of  you,  Robert,  to  let  nothing  hap- 
pen." Then  with  sudden  regret  she  covered  her  words 
with  quick  gestures  and  a  touch  on  his  arm.     "  I'm  teas- 


232  OUR  HOUSE 

ing  now.  Of  course  I  understand  you.  They  can't  be- 
lieve in  our  experiment.  How  could  you  expect  them  to, 
in  Millingtown  % " 

An  experiment.  He  had  never  thought  of  it  as  an  ex- 
periment. Had  she  been  slowly  wearying  of  their  friend- 
ship through  these  weeks  of  intimacy  ?  "  Look  here, 
Mary,  am  I  giving  you  what  you  want  in  this  ?  "  he  faced 
her,  doubtful,  but  determined. 

"  I  think  so.  I  suppose  so.  Oh,  what  a  silly  ques- 
tion!" 

She  drooped;  the  spring  had  gone  out  of  him  also; 
their  eager  dialogue  drained  away  into  listlessness.  It  was 
such  a  lax  minute  as  comes  after  tension  unconfessed. 

"  Well  — n  he  moved  aimlessly  toward  the  steps  — "  I'll 
see  you  to-night." 

She  smiled  wearily,  and  picked  up  her  Bernard  Shaw. 

Cousin  Jenny  and  his  mother  were  walking  in  the  with- 
ered rose  garden,  two  gray  and  stately  figures.  He  joined 
them  silently,  taking  an  arm  of  each.  Languor  was  strong 
upon  him. 

"  Thee  plays  tennis  too  hard,  dear."  His  mother 
pressed  his  arm. 

Cousin  Jenny  grunted.  "  Tennis  —  it's  not  tennis. 
Sarah,  I  want  to  talk  to  this  grown-up  baby  of  thine  — 
something  thee's  too  young  to  hear.  There's  thy  Peter 
yelping  for  his  supper.  Thee  go  to  him  and  leave  this  big 
puppy  to  me." 

His  mother  left  them  doubtfully.  "  I  don't  know  what 
thee's  going  to  say,  Jenny." 

"  Of  course  thee  doesn't.  If  thee  did,  thee'd  be  the  one 
to  say  it.     Good  Gracious,  Peter's  at  the  cat's  milk !  — " 

When  they  were  alone,  she  pinched  his  arm. 

"  Can't  thee  guess  ?  " 

"  I'm    supposed    to    be    in    love  ? "     Eobert    smiled. 


THE  PLUNGE  233 

Cousin  Jenny  always  put  him  in  a  good  humor.  "  But 
thee's  wrong.  Have  I  acted  like  an  abstracted  lover  ? " 
He  was  pleasantly  conscious  of  the  cheerful  place  he  had 
made  for  himself  in  this  new-old  household.  Conscience 
approved  him.  "  No,  it's  just  friendship,  Cousin  Jenny. 
The  finest,  most  intimate  friendship  any  one  could  ever 
have.  She  keeps  my  mind  alive."  He  was  so  certain  they 
had  never  guessed  the  other  side,  Mary's  side,  that  he  spoke 
with  absolute  candor. 

The  old  lady  dropped  his  arm,  and  faced  him,  quivering. 
Her  eyes  were  stinging  needles.  "  Shame  on  thee,  Robert. 
Shame  on  thee  for  thy  selfishness.  I  wish  Mary  Sharpe 
was  in  Jericho,  for  her  own  sake  and  thine;  but  I'll  have 
no  blood  of  mine  treat  a  girl  as  thee  is  treating  her. 
Doesn't  thee  know  she's  in  love  with  thee  I  " 

The  surprise  of  her  attack  threw  Robert  back  upon  the 
truth  in  his  heart.  a  What  if  she  is,"  he  answered  dog- 
gedly. "  '  Love  '  isn't  a  simple  fact,  is  it  ?  Suppose  she 
loves  me  a  little,  and  suppose  I  am  fond  of  her,  and  sup- 
pose we  agree  to  make  a  fine  friendship  out  of  it  instead 
of  parting  or  quarreling  like  any  old  Tom  and  Susan, —  is 
that  Millingtown's  business  ?  Is  that  selfish  ?  "  His  an- 
ger rose.     "  I  must  guide  myself  in  this." 

"  Baby,"  said  Cousin  Jenny  calmly.  "  Big  baby  that 
knows  so  much  about  love !  What's  thy  education  good  for 
if  it  doesn't  teach  that  thee  can't  be  friends  with  a  girl  that 
loves  thee.  Simple  fiddlesticks !  Love's  just  what  it  was 
when  I  was  a  girl  —  put  thy  finger  in  it  —  and  thee'll  get 
burned." 

"  What  does  thee  want  me  to  do  ? "  he  answered  hotly. 
"  Fall  in  love  with  her.  It  wouldn't  be  difficult.  She's 
the  best  companion  I  ever  had." 

"  No,  boy.  She'd  wear  thee  out.  Go  away.  Leave 
her,  till  thee's  older  and  wiser." 


234  OUR  HOUSE 

"  Spoil  a  friendship  that's  the  best  thing  we  own,  be- 
cause I'm  afraid  for  myself !  Is  that  thy  idea  of  unselfish- 
ness! I'm  ashamed  of  thee,  Cousin  Jenny."  He  blazed 
in  righteous  anger. 

"  Big  baby,"  she  said  again,  less  calmly.  "  Look  at  her. 
See  how  white  she  is,  and  nervous.  Thy  friendship's 
spoiled  already.  Thee's  too  good  a  man  to  wreck  a  girl  like 
that.     It'll  make  thee  unhappy  all  thy  life." 

"  White  —  nervous  — "  he  stammered.  Yes,  she  was. 
But  what  — 

Cousin  Jenny's  voice  lost  its  cutting  edge.  She  hesi- 
tated, and  when  she  spoke  it  was  so  low  that  he  could 
scarcely  hear.  At  first  he  did  not  understand  her  veiled 
allusions.  "  Love  meant  desire,  when  I  was  a  girl,  Rob- 
bie.    Thee  can't  play  at  being  friends,  with  love." 

His  faced  burned.  "  I  haven't.  I  swear  I  haven't, 
Cousin  Jenny," —  and  then  he  saw  by  the  shake  of  her 
head  that  his  answer  would  not  do.  "  '  Baby '  may  be 
right,"  he  said  bitterly  at  last.  "  But  I'll  make  it  up  to 
her.  She's  worth  more  than  I  am.  Just  let  her  ask,  and 
she  can  have  me." 

"  Not  that  way,  not  that  way,  Robbie,"  cried  the  old 
lady.  "  There'll  be  just  misery  for  you  both  — "  but  he 
was  off  to  his  room  to  think  it  out. 

"  Old  fool,  old  fool,"  said  Cousin  Jenny  to  herself, 
shaking  her  head  after  him.  "  Thee's  gone  and  done  it 
now.  I  never  thought  thee'd  get  excited  and  tell  him  the 
truth."  She  sniffed  back  a  little  sob  — "  It's  a  good 
thing  God  never  let  thee  have  a  son."  Then  she  stiffened 
her  lips.  "  But  a  Roberts  can't  act  the  brute  with  any 
girl,  even  such  a  snip  as  Mary  Sharpe.  Well,  he's  made 
his  own  bed,  and  he'll  have  to  get  out  of  it.  Peter !  Drop 
that  slipper  or  I'll  wring  thy  neck !  " 


THE  PLUNGE  235 

That  night  Mary  was  vivid,  her  voice  a  challenge,  her 
eyes  cold  gray  fire  warming  to  sarcasm.  If  she  had  been 
languorous,  his  self-blame  might  have  turned  to  pity. 
That  would  have  iced  her  pride,  and  the  break  would  have 
come,  or,  upon  some  lower  level,  they  might  have  made  the 
impossible  possible  a  little  longer. 

But  under  the  great  Carpaccio  she  sat  waiting  for  him 
on  a  Venetian  chair  backed  with  crimson  damask,  brilliant, 
alluring,  dressed  like  a  girl  of  eighteen,  but  how  much  more 
subtle,  powerful,  intense.  Choose  between  the  Country 
Club  and  me,  her  eyes  seemed  to  say.  Circe  or  Diana. 
"  Circe  — "  said  Robert  aloud,  and  dropped  on  a  footstool 
before  her  feet. 

u  What  has  happened  ?  "  she  asked,  commanding. 

He  had  no  plan,  only  to  find  out  the  truth,  to  test  her, 
and  then  himself.  Taking  her  hand  he  pressed  it.  A 
wave  of  rose  rushed  from  face  to  bosom.  Her  eyes  deep- 
ened. His  blood  thrilled  in  answer.  "  We  can't  go  on 
like  this,  Mary,"  he  said.  "  This  friendship  has  been  good 
while  it  lasted.     Now  it's  over." 

He  expected  protest,  but  his  touch  had  disarmed  her. 
"  What  next  \  "  she  asked  and  swayed  dizzily  toward  him. 

The  hour's  struggle  in  his  room  had  left  him  one  con- 
clusion. "  I  want  you  to  marry  me,"  he  said  firmly. 
"  You've  been  my  best  friend.  You  and  I  —  warm  to- 
ward each  other,  Mary.  I  can  offer  you  everything  in  me 
except  silly,  ideal  romance." 

For  a  moment  she  was  lax  and  silent.  Then  she  jerked 
loose  her  hands  and  sprang  from  the  chair.  "  No,  no,  no 
—  I  can't,  I  won't.  I  say  I  won't  marry  you.  Oh,  Rob- 
bie, why  did  you  ask  me !     Please  go !     Please  go !  " 

"  Mary,  you're  hysterical.  You  don't  mean  '  no,'  you 
can't.     It's  the  best,  it's  the  only  way."     He  followed  her. 


236  OUR  HOUSE 

She  pushed  him  away.  "  Hysterical  —  of  course  I  am. 
But  I  mean  it,  every  i  no.'  And  I  won't  be  reasoned 
with." 

"  But  why  ?  why  ?  "  He  was  angry,  too  angry  to  remem- 
ber that  he  should  be  pleading. 

"  Because  you  don't  love  me.  No,  it  isn't  that.  Be- 
cause —  oh,  how  can  you  understand !  Because  you 
haven't  had  your  chance  yet.  You've  never  been  in  love. 
It's  not  right,  not  safe  to  marry  you." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Robert ;  "  don't  be  merely  romantic." 

She  turned  upon  him,  cornered  and  desperate.  "  Be- 
cause, because  you  can't  support  me  —  because  you'd  have 
to  live  on  my  money.     There  —  is  that  a  reason !  " 

Robert  picked  up  his  hat  and  went  as  far  as  the  door. 
He  was  deeply  stirred.  "  I'll  think  that  out,"  he  said 
bitterly.  "  I've  asked  you  to  be  my  wife  because  I've 
found  that  I  couldn't  give  you  up.  If  you  don't  want  me, 
why  do  you  love  me  ?     I  won't  take  a  wild  answer." 

"  I  wont  marry  him,  I  won't  marry  him,"  she  cried,  as 
if  to  the  Carpaccio. 

Hurt  and  angry,  he  strode  down  the  hall  and  slammed 
the  outer  door.  But  it  was  opened  before  he  had  reached 
the  bottom  step.  Her  face,  warm,  transfigured,  unspeak- 
ably appealing,  caught  him  back. 

"  Not  marriage,  Robbie,  I  can't  and  be  fair  to  you ;  but 
love,  dear  —  if  you  wish  it,"  she  murmured. 

"  '  Love,'  "  he  cried  in  shocked  surprise,  "  you  mean  — " 

The  words  whipped  her  face.  a  Yes,  just  love,"  she 
said  coldly,  and  closed  the  door. 

A  rush  of  passion  flung  him  up  the  steps.  "  If  you 
mean  it,  Mary  " —  but  he  was  too  late.  The  key  turned 
in  the  heavy  lock. 


CHAPTER  III 

STBUGGLE 

HE  resisted  an  impulse  to  pound  upon  the  door,  then 
flung  himself  impatiently  down  the  walk,  rousing  an- 
ger to  cover  his  humiliation.  "  t  Just  love  \ —  nonsense !  " 
She  must  marry  him.  The  thwarted  resolution  to  put  the 
thing  through  at  whatever  risk  strained  within  him  like  a 
broken  spring.  As  he  hurried  toward  the  moonlit  country 
his  lips  curled  with  desire  of  mastery.  He  had  her  secret. 
If  in  the  morning  he  could  grasp  her  wrist  she  would 
struggle,  but  have  to  yield.  Her  reasons?  Money!  It 
was  characteristic  of  Robert  Roberts  that  he  did  not  stop 
to  wrestle  with  this  objection  probably  because  he  had  con- 
ceived of  marriage  so  far  only  in  the  abstract.  His  con- 
science was  still  clear  there  —  too  ignorantly  clear.  His 
virgin  heart !  And  here  he  would  not  think.  Such  dan- 
gerous romanticism  he  had  conquered  (so  he  thought)  for- 
ever. That  she  —  the  unconventional,  the  ironical  — 
should  be  its  ally  was  too  much!  She  loved  him.  She 
ought  to  marry  him  regardless  of  might-have-beens.  And 
he  had  the  power  to  drag  her.  A  hand  upon  her  wrist, 
the  touch  of  blood  to  blood,  and  she  would  droop  to  him 
like  a  poppy  in  the  sunlight. 

But  alas,  there  was  something  in  him  stronger  than  his 
will.  When  he  tried  to  express  it,  he  could  only  say, 
"  Confound  it,  I'm  a  gentleman !  "  and  laugh  bitterly  at 
the  inadequacy  of  a  word  that  carried  with  it  such  an  aston- 
ishing trail  of  "  can'ts  "  and  "  won'ts  "  from  the  beginning 
of  his  recorded  time.  If  she  willed  no,  he  could  not  force 
her,  or  so  he  thought. 

His  hurried  steps  had  led  him  through  the  Brandywine 

237 


238  OUR  HOUSE 

woods  above  tlie  old  quarry  mouth,  dim  brightness  on  the 
left,  crisp,  moon-shot  darkness  on  the  right,  his  path 
acrunch  with  fallen  leaves.  Fast  walking  lulled  his  mood. 
He  began  to  remember  her  softened  eyes  as  she  made  her 
wild  offer  of  love,  just  love.  "  One  of  those  odd  tricks 
which  sorrow  shoots  out  of  the  mind."  He  was  calm 
enough  to  find  a  quotation  to  match  it.  Supposing  that  she 
would  not  marry  him  —  the  "  not "  timed  itself  to  the 
grind  of  his  heel  on  the  path,  and  settled  into  conviction  — 
would  he  join  in  that  other?  A  hidden,  furtive  amour 
there,  on  our  square,  with  a  woman  he  had  reverenced ! 
Repulsion  seized  him,  and  disgust.  It  would  be  like  get- 
ting drunk  on  the  steps  of  "  our  house  " !  "  She  can't 
mean  that,"  he  whispered. 

And  then  he  flushed,  angry  at  himself.  What  unspeak- 
able priggishness  allowed  him  to  think  in  such  terms  of  any 
relation  with  a  girl  like  Mary !  What  an  insult  to  suppose 
that  she  meant  —  well,  anything  remotely  resembling  that 
mere  sexual  indulgence  his  code  had  taught  him  to  con- 
demn. It  was  love  she  meant,  breaking  through  all  preju- 
dice, surmounting  conventions,  taking  the  only  way.  Was 
he  man  enough  to  meet  it,  whether  or  not  he  was  in  love 
with  her  in  his  own  romantic  fashion  ?  Was  it  so  moral,  to 
preserve  his  sacred  purity  at  her  expense !  "  Why  haven't 
I  ever  thought  this  out  before  ?  "  he  groaned. 

He  strode  on,  kicking  the  leaves,  out  to  the  bright  edge 
of  the  quarry.  In  the  smooth  mill  dam  below  he  could  see 
the  jagged  lines  of  ice  crystals  shining.  Frost  whitened 
the  roofs  of  the  old  gray  houses  beyond,  in  his  father's 
town,  his  grandfather's.  He  traced  the  winding  lane  from 
the  water's  edge  up  which  Katherine  Gray  and  he  walked 
in  the  golden  haze  of  the  day  his  father  died.  Peace,  or- 
der, tradition,  romance, —  all  the  good  things  were  there 
that  kept  dragging  him  back  from  reality  and  life.     What 


STEUGGLE  239 

would  it  mean  to  transcend  them,  to  break  his  mind  away 
by  one  severing  act  I  For  he  did  not  deceive  himself. 
His  traditions  of  chastity  were  part  of  his  blood.  They 
were  those  of  a  peculiar  people,  narrow  but  fixed,  limiting 
but  perdurable.  What  other  men  might  call  priggishness, 
for  him  was  an  instinct  bedded  close  to  the  primal  im- 
pulses. 

As  he  stood  there,  balancing  against  the  night  wind, 
straining  his  whole  being  to  think,  a  thousand  influences 
from  below  began  to  play  upon  him.  He  thrust  them  back 
and  brought  every  force  of  his  brain  and  all  his  reading  to 
work  upon  this  question  of  sex  morality  for  himself,  from 
the  beginning  up.  With  uncanny  clearness,  he  saw  that  it 
was  nothing  but  a  structure  of  inhibitions,  of  refusals,  built 
brick  by  brick  from  savagery  upward.  He  saw  that  what 
had  seemed  to  him  a  religious  duty  in  his  Puritan  house- 
hold was  nothing  but  a  close  compact  of  prohibitions,  taboos 
upon  the  dangerous  act,  lest  society  or  self-respect  should 
suffer. 

He  thought  of  the  great  lovers  —  Lancelot,  Tristram, 
Aucassin.  The  Middle  Ages  were  wise  in  human  nature ; 
though  Holy  Church  condemned  these  great  sinners,  their 
fellowmen  have  not.  Did  their  burning  hearts  make  it 
right  to  overstep  the  line?  Was  it  best  everywhere  that 
love  somehow,  sometime,  should  break  through  to  prove 
that  the  law  was  made  for  love,  not  love  for  the  law  ?  His 
thoughts  moved  forward  suddenly.  Sin  lay  in  the  circum- 
stances, never  in  the  deed.  If  you  loved  enough !  —  The 
idea  that  it  was  right  for  them  to  love  together  crept 
through  his  mind,  touching  gently  the  memories  of  their 
comradeship,  lighting  their  communion.  Loyalty  welled 
up  in  his  heart.  In  imagination  he  pushed  back  the  door 
before  it  closed,  caught  her  hands,  and  kissed  her.  To 
have,  if  not  to  hold,  and  down  with  Quakerism! 


240  OUR  HOUSE 

Confound  it,  it  would  not  down !  His  imagination 
would  not  go  on  with  the  story.  Part  of  him  held  back. 
And  just  for  an  instant,  the  cool  night  cleared  his  brain, 
and  he  saw  what  chastity  really  was  for  him;  that  you 
could  not  let  go  with  a  girl  you  respected  unless  you  gave 
her  everything.  And  Mary,  Mary  —  he  said  her  name 
aloud  almost  in  anguish, —  his  dreams  still  held  back  from 
her,  his  youth,  and  love  as  he  had  imagined  love  would  be, 
a  dizzy,  unknown  rapture.  And  there  was  Katherine 
Gray  — .  Mary  could  do  it.  She  would  give  everything. 
But  there  were  dreams  in  him  disloyal  to  her.  She  would 
get  the  worst  of  him  only.  It  would  be  Tristram  not 
Lancelot.  In  marriage  at  least  he  shared  the  risk ;  but  in 
this  — "  I'd  be  a  mucker,"  he  said,  and  knew  he  was 
right. 

Then  suddenly  he  saw  her  melting  face,  and  vanity,  and 
passion  rushed  up  and  hurled  him  away  and  onward. 
Wilfully  he  broke  through  the  screen  of  bushes  at  the 
cliff's  edge,  wilfully  broke  from  the  traditions  and  inhibi- 
tions holding  him  back.  The  cold  leaves  lashed  his  face; 
the  saplings  bent  beneath  him ;  he  reached  the  river's  edge; 
sprang  balancing  from  rock  to  rock  across  the  rapids; 
climbed  the  steep  hill;  and  breathless  reached  the  dead 
streets  of  Millingtown. 

There  was  light  in  her  windows.  He  stepped  hurriedly 
through  the  shrubbery  until  he  was  just  beneath,  then  saw 
her  moving  figure  in  the  room.  "  Mary."  She  paused, 
half  hearing.  How  clear  and  fine  was  her  face  as  she  lis- 
tened, how  proud.  Was  it  right  to  give  such  a  woman  any- 
thing less  than  love?  Was  this  passion  worthy  of  her? 
Should  he  call  louder?  He  looked  around  him  carefully. 
"  Our  house  "  loomed  behind,  the  wide  chimneys,  the  deep 
windows  glimmering  dully  in  the  moonlight,  all  dark 
within.     The  pine  by  his  old  window  towered  into  the 


STRUGGLE  241 

night  above  him.  Strong,  silent  influences  of  home 
dropped  like  healing  dew  upon  his  fevered  mind. 

And  then  the  beat  of  his  blood  drowned  everything,  and 
he  called  her,  clearly,  triumphantly.  The  light  went  out ; 
there  were  steps  upon  the  inner  stair;  the  side  door 
opened;  she  stepped  into  the  moonlight  and  glanced  once 
at  his  face.  With  swift  emotion,  he  drew  her  beside  him 
into  the  shadows  of  his  pine.  "  Don't,  dear  boy,"  she 
whispered.  "  Let  me  go  back  before  we  harm  each  other." 
But  his  blood  was  up.  He  smothered  her  protests  with  an 
embrace. 

Mary  did  not  struggle.  Indeed,  it  was  such  poignant 
happiness  as  she  had  never  known,  to  forget  her  pride,  to 
let  her  head  lie  on  his  shoulder  with  an  arm  about  his  neck, 
while  the  tears  flowed  softly  and  her  body  was  given  over 
to  his  will.  The  fierceness  had  died  out  of  her  love.  It 
was  tender;  too  tender  now.  She  thought  that  after  all 
she  was  younger  than  she  had  guessed,  that  there  might 
be  more  than  just  love  for  the  two  of  them.  "  Oh,  Eobbie, 
dear,"  she  whispered  in  her  broken  speech,  "  be  patient 
with  me  —  don't  take  me  at  my  word,  yet.  Perhaps  " — 
she  could  not  say,  "  I  may  make  you  really  love  me." 

But  the  tears  on  her  cool  cheeks  inflamed  him.  The 
night  swayed  and  dizzied;  his  deepest  passions,  loose  for 
the  first  time,  whirled  his  mind  in  a  tempest  of  desire  that 
made  him  indifferent  to  anything  but  satisfaction.  He 
crushed  her  to  him,  and  when  she  freed  herself  painfully, 
his  one  thought  was  to  regain  her,  to  grasp  her,  to  bend  her 
to  his  will.  Mary  was  frightened.  "  Let  me  go !  Let 
me  go !  See,  there's  a  light  in  Matilda's  room ;  she'll  hear 
us.  I've  something  to  tell  you  —  to-morrow  night,  in  the 
house,  where  it's  safer.  Let  me  go."  She  twisted  away 
from  his  rough  arms,  ran  in,  and  locked  the  door  behind 
her. 


242  OUR  HOUSE 

Eobert  heard,  but  laughed  at  her  sobbing.  She  was  all 
his.  Kicking  the  shrub  tangles  from  his  path,  indifferent 
to  noise,  he  strode  round  the  block  to  Cousin  Jenny's. 
Two  meteors  sparkled  one  after  the  other  across  the  night 
that  blurred  above  his  throbbing  head.  "  How  ridicu- 
lous," he  thought,  "  to  talk  of  the  absurdity  of  man  in  the 
face  of  stars  and  eternity!  Isn't  an  hour  like  this  more 
real  than  a  thousand  miles  of  dust  ?  What's  a  star  beside 
life !  "  And  again  passion  beat  through  his  blood  until 
he  could  have  shouted  for  the  joy  of  it.  And  all  those 
deep,  mysterious  forces  of  sex  which  his  ancestors  had 
called  original  sin,  junketed  forth  and  cheered  for  liberty. 
It  was  their  hour. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DEGRADATION 

IN"  the  morning,  while  snow  and  sleet  drove  through  the 
pine  tree  and  whipped  the  shuttered  windows  at  the 
rear  of  her  house,  he  paced  his  room,  making  no  pretense 
of  work,  still  drunk  indeed  with  exultation  and  desire. 
New  energies  seemed  to  have  been  freed  in  him.  They 
defied  words,  defied  writing  when  he  tried  to  put  them  on 
paper;  called  for  poetry,  not  prose,  and  broke  through 
verse.  "  I've  cut  loose,"  he  murmured ;  and  indeed,  so  far 
as  he  could  consider  at  all,  the  world  seemed  a  different, 
rougher,  more  interesting  place.  His  eyes  were  wet  with 
the  thrill  of  her  yielding.  Afterward  —  ?  The  devil 
take  the  future !     He  had  found  reality  in  to-day. 

The  snow  swept  inexorably  over  her  house.  Not  a 
blind,  not  a  cranny  was  open  for  a  sight  of  life.  She  had 
said  "  to-morrow  night,"  and  indeed  it  would  be  wiser  not 
to  adventure  the  front  steps  on  such  a  day,  in  view  of  so 
many  storm-bound  eyes.  He  must  be  prudent  and  play 
the  game.  After  all,  everyday  life  must  go  on.  There 
was  work.  He  sat  down  more  quietly  and  picked  up  his 
pencil.  The  throbbing  died;  his  mind  grew  calmer  and 
he  felt  weary. 

"  Robbie,  dear,  is  thee  warm  enough  up  there  ? "  his 
mother  called. 

"  Yes,  thank  thee,"  he  answered,  half  hearing,  and  then 

as  the  quiet  tones  of  her  voice  lingered  in  his  ear,  he  was 

aware  of  a  little  pain  beneath  his  fervor,  a  sore  that  ached. 

He  flung  down  his  pencil,  knowing  what  was  coming. 

243 


244  OUR  HOUSE 

They  would  net  him  about  again,  these  quiet  influences  of 
home.  They  would  make  this  great  adventure  seem  impos- 
sible, immoral,  not  worthy  of  a  gentleman.  They  would 
unnerve  him  into  compromise,  drag  him  back  from  experi- 
ence. "  By  God,  ISTo !  "  he  cried  softly,  and  hurried  into 
his  coat  and  out  into  the  storm. 

The  snow  had  ceased  and  the  air  was  slaty  blue  with  a 
moist  clarity  through  which  figures  moved  with  uncanny 
definition.  He  saw  Jen  a  block  away  walking  toward  him 
and  caught  the  curl  of  her  lip  as,  with  half-lifted  hat,  he 
turned  into  Mary's  yard.  Ringing  the  doorbell  hurriedly, 
he  tried  to  get  out  of  sight  in  the  vestibule  before  she 
passed.  "  And  yet,"  he  thought,  and  hated  himself  for 
thinking  it,  "  it  isn't  as  if  I  were  going  to  marry  Mary. 
They  can  guess,  but  no  one  will  know."  Next  moment  he 
was  in  the  long  hall,  dropping  his  coat  by  the  cloak  she  had 
worn  the  night  before.  The  touch  of  it  set  his  blood  throb- 
bing again.     He  hurried  into  the  parlor. 

She  was  writing.  For  a  moment  his  old  deference  and 
the  connotations  of  that  room  held  him  back,  like  a  hand 
on  the  shoulder ;  and  before  he  could  recover  she  had  risen 
and  was  on  the  defensive. 

"  I  told  you  to  come  to-night." 

The  chill  of  her  tone  angered  him,  but  he  saw  her 
pleading  eyes. 

"  I  couldn't  wait,"  he  said  calmly.  "  It  was  too  long," 
and  thrusting  away  the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen  he 
seized  and  kissed  her. 

She  yielded  herself  for  an  instant,  but  when  he  drew 
her  to  the  sofa  and  pulled  her  eagerly  down  beside  him, 
she  slipped  from  his  arms.  "  At  least,"  she  said  pathet- 
ically, "  you  might  close  the  door  before  you  —  embrace 
me." 

She  was  touching,  this  high-spirited  girl  in  her  setting 


DEGRADATION  245 

of  books  and  pictures,  Whistler  on  the  wall,  Browning  and 
Wilde  and  Tolstoi  beside  her,  so  conscious  of  her  pride,  so 
helpless  to  guard  it.  Eobert  wanted  to  feel  the  nuances, 
but  would  not.  He  was  bent  on  mastering  her,  and  him- 
self. 

He  closed  the  door  and  locked  it.  "  Don't  hold  back. 
Don't  play  with  me,  Mary.     I've  waited  too  long." 

"  Oh,  wait  longer,"  she  pleaded,  sheltering  in  the  pillows 
of  the  sofa.  Half  consciously  he  noted  that  her  body  was 
relaxed,  her  figure,  so  poised  and  self-regardful,  had  let 
down  its  defenses.  She  was  his  already ;  she  knew  it ;  and 
so  at  first  he  paid  little  attention  to  her  words. 

"  Wait  longer,"  she  murmured ;  "  it's  more  than  just  sex 
with  us.  We  ought  to  keep  all  that  was  good  in  the  old 
times.  Let  me  go  away  for  a  month,  for  a  week,  till  you're 
calmer  — "  and  then,  as  he  moved  impatiently  — "  finer. 
You  aren't  as  I  like  you  best.  Oh,  I  don't  want  you  this 
way,  Robbie." 

"  You'll  have  to  take  me  as  I  am,"  he  answered  heed- 
lessly, and  caught  her  arms.  There  was  a  moment's 
struggle,  then  she  tore  herself  away,  and  flung  behind  the 
Chippendale  table  with  its  Benares  lamp  and  Omar 
Khayyaam  in  tooled  blue.  "  Something  has  changed  in 
you,  Robbie,"  she  panted,  and  for  once  forgot  her  care  for 
him  in  sheer  self -protection.  "  Don't  make  it  so  hard  for 
me.  I  meant  every  word  last  night  —  but  I'm  older  — 
and  I  love  you.     It's  pride.     You  mustn't  —  force  me !  " 

And  all  he  could  think  of  was,  "  If  she  goes  now  I'll  lose 
her  " ;  and  that  piqued  him  to  mastery  again.  "  Don't 
play  the  baby,"  he  said  across  the  table,  roughly  it  seemed 
to  her;  and  when  she  stiffened,  "  I'll  make  you  love  me." 
He  touched  her  wrist,  then  pressed  it  until  her  blood  beats 
merged  with  his.  The  color  spread  on  her  arm.  Her  eyes 
softened.     She  was  all  his,  helpless.     "  I  don't  care  about 


246  OUR  HOUSE 

your  pride  —  I  want  you !  "  he  said.  Vanity  and  the 
desire  to  break  once  for  all  with  prudishness  moved  him 
quite  as  much  as  passion. 

Crash !  —  the  Benares  lamp  bounded  on  the  floor  after 
stinging  his  knuckles.  She  towered  at  him,  red  with 
shame  and  indignation,  then  drooped  suddenly  dull  and 
white,  "  What  have  I  done  to  you,  if  already  you  insult 
me."  Twisting  the  lock  open  she  ran  upstairs  in  a  burst 
of  sobbing.  He  followed  her,  saw  Matilda  staring,  found 
his  coat,  went  out,  and  slammed  the  door  behind  him ;  knew 
that  he  was  losing  her  and  knocked  angrily  for  readmit- 
tance;  and  when  there  was  no  response,  shuffled  down  the 
walk  in  petulant  rage.  There,  by  ill  luck,  he  met  Jen 
again,  mumbled  at  her,  and  hurried  homeward.  She  must 
have  seen  him  beating  on  the  doorway.  The  soup  was 
spilled  now  —  everybody  would  be  talking.  What  differ- 
ence did  it  make !  He  was  too  vexed  and  perturbed  and 
thwarted  to  care  or  to  be  ashamed.  But  when  he  was 
locked  in  his  room,  pacing  the  floor,  recalling  her  words 
and  his  actions,  light  burst  upon  him,  and  horror,  and  loath- 
ing.    By  night  he  knew  that  he  must  leave  Millingtown. 


CHAPTER  V 

FLIGHT 

SUE  won  upon  him.  Matilda  was  at  the  gate  as  he 
opened  the  door  to  get  his  mother's  morning  paper. 
"  Miss  Mary  left  this  for  you.     She  gone  this  mo'nin'." 

"  Gone  —  where  ?  " 

"  I  dunno,  to  her  brother  in  Italy,  I  think.  He  tele- 
graph her  las'  night  that  he's  very  sick.  We  pack  all  night 
pretty  much ;  an'  then  she  write  this  an'  ask  me  to  bring  it 
in  the  mo'nin'.     I  dunno  when  she's  comin'  back." 

He  seized  the  letter  and  took  it  into  the  darkened  library. 

"  Yes,  I'm  running  away  —  like  Johnny  Bolt.  [That 
stung  him.]  I  don't  like  you  without  your  precious 
Quaker  ideals.  You're  not  your  real  self.  I  hate  you  for 
not  caring  for  all  our  old  friendship  —  when  this  other 
came.     I  hate  myself  for  lowering  you. 

"  I  couldn't  marry  you  before  you  had  been  really  in 
love.  It  wasn't  right  —  or  safe.  If  you  had  been  really 
in  love  that  other  time  you  told  me  of,  and  got  over  it,  then 
perhaps  —  But  I  don't  want  duty  love ;  nor  what  you 
were  last  night. 

"  Good-by  and  thank  you,  you  know  for  what.  [Thank 
him!]     We'll  be  friends  yet.     Good-by,  dear." 

The  liner  was  backing  toward  midstream  as  his  ferry- 
boat nosed  for  the  dock  beside  her.  Blank,  incurious  faces 
stared  down  at  him  from  her  rail ;  then  the  whistle  roared ; 
she  swung  oceanward;  slowly,  port  by  port,  she  drifted 
above  him.  And  then  he  saw  her,  drooping  at  the  rail, 
miserable,  lonely.     And  though  a  wave  of  his  hand  would 

247 


248  OUR  HOUSE 

have  caught  her  eye,  he  could  not;  he  knew  instantly 
that  he  could  not  have  spoken  to  her  even  if  he  had  been  in 
time.  There  was  nothing  to  say ;  no  answer  to  make.  He 
had  insulted  her,  compromised  her,  driven  her  out,  made 
even  friendship  impossible  between  them,  because  he  had 
broken  away  from  whatever  was  decent  in  him,  because  he 
was  what  he  was.  The  river  was  bitterly  lonely ;  he  turned 
and  followed  the  crowd  to  shore,  distress  in  his  heart.  His 
eyes  burned ;  it  took  all  his  will  to  guard  his  face  until  he 
found  an  alleyway  out  of  the  docks,  and  hurried  along  it, 
and  sat  down  by  a  pile  over  greasy  water  where  only  gulls 
could  see  him  or  distant  boats. 

At  first  it  was  just  loneliness ;  the  gray  world  with  Mary 
out  of  it,  a  girl  he  wasn't  worthy  to  see  again,  couldn't 
follow  unf orgiven.  No  reason  for  forgiveness ;  no  plan  if 
she  forgave  him ;  a  drifter  who  could  scarcely  support  him- 
self. He  deserved  to  lose  her.  She  deserved  to  escape 
him. 

And  then  something  cut  still  deeper.  It  was  the  loss 
of  himself.  Other  things  had  happened  to  other  people, 
and  he  had  grieved  and  struggled ;  but  this  blow  cut  him 
to  the  heart ;  cut  into  his  egoism,  his  self.  Turn  and  twist 
as  he  might  there  was  no  hope  in  it,  only  gross  failure, 
unspeakable  loss.  He  had  broken  from  his  own  ideals,  and 
proved  he  was  no  better  than  a  cad  without  them  —  worse, 
a  fool  and  a  baby,  a  selfish  sentimentalist  trying  to  buy 
love  with  passion!  His  mouth  slackened;  he  was  weary 
of  himself.  His  mind  swayed  like  the  filthy  water  below 
him  full  of  dirty  boxes,  slimy  bottles,  and  oil  sludge  use- 
lessly swaying.     He  stared  at  it  hopelessly. 

A  stevedore  with  a  cargo  hook  on  his  shoulder  stumbled 
over  him.     "  What  the  hell  youse  doin'  here  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  nothing,''  said  Robert  dully,  and  dragged 
on  out  upon  the  pier.     Nothing  gave  him  relief  but  the 


FLIGHT  249 

thought  of  her,  what  she  was  by  comparison  to  his  abase- 
ment, what  she  must  have  suffered.  But  when  he  tried  to 
hold  her  in  his  mind  the  pain  was  too  sharp.  He  made 
himself  think  of  her.  He  forced  himself  to  push  through 
the  boxes  and  crates  down  the  dark  pier  and  out  into  the 
river  light  where  he  could  see  the  liner,  a  smudged  blot 
now  against  the  Jersey  sky.  The  sight  strengthened  him. 
"  I'll  make  good  yet,  Mary,"  he  murmured,  defiant  of  cir- 
cumstance. 

Perhaps  she  was  gone  forever.  No  use  hoping  that  she 
wasn't.  At  any  rate  it  was  time  to  begin  over  and  be 
something.  The  flimsy  structure  of  ill-controlled  desires 
which  he  had  built  over  his  real  self  tumbled  in  upon  his 
mind  like  rotten  scaffolding.  It  was  the  end  of  his  boy- 
hood. 

In  the  lobby  of  the  Manhattan  a  long  arm  whipped  out 
from  the  crowd  and  caught  his  shoulder.  Dug  Duckins 
wheeled  him  into  a  divan  by  the  door,  and  in  a  rush  of 
greetings  gave  Robert  time  to  master  his  emotions.  But 
he  need  not  have  troubled.  Dug's  long  body  was  abeam 
with  inner  light.  "  Get  my  letter  \  No !  Hooray,  I'll 
tell  you.  I'm  going  to  be  married.  Want  you  for  an 
usher." 

"  Is  it '  Peaches  and  Cream '  ?  "  asked  Robert  dully. 

"  Sure  —  Ethel  Sedgwick.  The  devil  you  guessed  it. 
I  never  did,  until  last  week." 

u  How  did  you  find  it  out,  Dug ! "  Try  as  he  would 
he  could  not  get  into  the  mood  of  congratulation. 

"  How  ?  Hit  me  —  here."  Dug  felt  up  and  down  his 
long  waistcoat  for  the  third  rib.  "  Here.  You  just  feel 
it,  you  know.     Don't  you  know,  you  old  f usser  ?  " 

Robert  forced  the  appropriate  laugh.  "  Immune,  I 
guess ;  at  least  so  far.     Of  course  I'll  be  an  usher.     I'd  do 


250  OUR  HOUSE 

a  good  deal  more  than  that  for  i  Peaches  ' —  for  Ethel. 
Gosh,  Dug,  what  a  shame  to  make  her  into  Ducking !  " 

"  She's  not  thinking  about  names,"  said  Dug  serenely. 
"  She's  in  love,  my  boy." 

"  How  could  she  help  it,"  said  Robert,  responding  more 
naturally,  "  after  a  good  look  at  you !  I  thought  she  was 
in  love  with  me  once ;  but  I  lack  your  manly  beauty,  about 
six  inches  of  it.  Here,  let's  drink  to  her  eyes,  and  your 
good  luck,  old  man.  I'm  serious  about  that.  Too  bad  the 
rest  of  the  crowd  aren't  here  to  help  celebrate." 

While  he  talked  on  idly  his  grip  came  back.  The 
worth  of  Dug,  of  all  old  sweet,  fine  things  that  you  could 
cherish  unashamed  —  Mary  had  saved  them  for  him.  He 
had  sinned  against  her;  she  had  kept  him  from  sinning 
irretrievably  against  himself.  He  had  broken  away  from 
his  moorings,  and  she  had  saved  him  —  but  not  to  go  back. 
The  ineffable  future  still  lay  before  him,  with  a  chance  to 
find  himself.     It  was  not  too  late. 

"  To  her  eyes,"  said  Dug,  lifting  his  glass. 

"  To  her  brain,"  answered  Robert,  clinking.  "  You'll 
find  it  more  useful." 

"  You  used  to  say  you  didn't  understand  women,  Rob." 

"  What  I  didn't  understand  was  myself,"  Robert  mur- 
mured, and  felt  some  of  the  bitterness  pass  out  of  him,  giv- 
ing way  to  sorrow  and  hope. 


BOOK  IV 


CHAPTEK  I 

THE    QUICK    OK   THE    DEAD 

ROBEET  went  back  to  Millingtown,  this  time,  because 
he  had  nowhere  else  to  go,  because  there  was  nowhere 
else  to  which  he  could  wish  to  go.  Desire  was  slack  within 
him.  He  was  tired,  mentally,  spiritually,  physically  tired, 
with  the  unhealthy  weariness  that  follows  hard  upon  strain. 
To  make  something  of  himself  more  worthy  of  living  was 
his  firm  intention,  but  when  the  mood  of  resolve  dies  down, 
resolve  itself  is  a  vague  thing,  not  helpful.  He  left  Jersey 
City  still  atingle  with  emotion;  he  stepped  down  to  the 
platform  at  Millingtown  in  a  gray  world  of  December  mist 
that  was  yet  less  gray,  less  sodden  than  his  mind.  He  felt 
older  —  almost  old. 

The  two  gray  heads  were  watching  for  him  from  an 
upper  window  when  he  alighted  from  the  trolley.  He  saw 
them  bob  excitedly  and  disappear.  Traces  of  tears  in  his 
mother's  face,  and  Cousin  Jenny's  softened  eye  made  him 
guess  that  they  had  feared  a  runaway ;  but  they  said  noth- 
ing, only  welcome;  and  he  was  too  weary,  too  lax  to  ex- 
plain. What  was  there  to  explain !  Cousin  Jenny's  firm 
pat  on  his  shoulder  showed  that  she  thought  she  under- 
stood, and  approved,  but  her  approval  this  time  could  not 
stiffen  his  mood. 

What  did  stir  Eobert  Roberts  to  ordinary  life  again  was 
the  discovery  that  he  had  become  a  figure  in  Millingtown. 
Men  who  had  scarcely  noticed  him  nodded  importantly 
when  they  passed  him  on  the  street ;  the  tables  at  the  Coun- 
try Club  made  quick  place  when  he  appeared  on  January 
afternoons,  and  stopped  stocks  or  good  stories  to  listen  if  he 
chose  to  contribute  to  the  conversation;  women  fluttered 

253 


254  OUR  HOUSE 

a  bit  in  his  presence,  spoke  smartly,  rated  him  clearly  as 
boy  no  longer  but  man.  Nothing  had  happened,  as  he  had 
said  so  fatuously  to  Mary,  but  he  had  been  the  almost  hero 
of  a  near-scandal.  She  was  gone  without  explanations ;  he 
was  there  without  actionable  reproach;  there  was  a  mys- 
tery. He  had  found  a  function  in  Millingtown.  It  was 
painful  to  him  but  it  had  its  sardonic  amusements. 

The  role  he  played  colored  his  winter.  The  "  younger 
set,"  all  but  his  own  "  crowd,"  had  looked  askance  at  him, 
as  one  whose  thoughts  were  inscrutable  and  probably  "  high 
brow  " ;  now  he  became  intelligible.  Dropping  polite  rem- 
iniscences of  childhood  and  inquiries  after  his  mother's 
health,  they  talked  to  him  as  a  man  of  this  world.  Even 
the  old  crowd  —  who  had  known  him  better  —  warmed  to 
him  more  readily,  and  without  restraint.  He  was  put  up 
for  the  town  club,  and  invited  to  Welsh  rarebits  and  bridge 
parties.  He  became  a  diner-out.  Robert  enjoyed  it.  Be- 
fore, in  the  days  of  his  utter  sincerity,  he  would  have  re- 
sisted this  descent  into  worldliness,  as  his  ancestors  re- 
sisted crinolines,  coat  collars,  and  high  hats.  But  his  slack 
mood  discounted  heroics.  Having  fought  it  out  with  Prin- 
ciple and  been  tripped  up  in  the  first  round,  now,  like 
many  a  one  before  him,  he  began  to  distrust  all  the  vir- 
tuous. In  fact,  Principle  and  Quakerism  were  rather  out- 
at-elbow  in  Millingtown.  The  old  order  was  moral,  but  it 
was  fearfuly  narrow,  and  desperately  dull.  Cousin  Tom, 
for  example  —  with  him,  spending  all  your  income,  voting 
the  Democratic  ticket,  and  sexual  immorality  had  become 
inextricably  confused.  One  was  as  bad  as  another;  and 
labor  unionism  worse  than  all  three.  There  were  only  a 
few  Cousin  Jennys,  most  of  them  women;  and  they  were 
old,  and  he  was  young. 

Indeed,  Millingtown  was  like  an  ancient  willow,  hol- 
lowed and  cracked  in  its  trunk,  a  little  rotten,  a  little  dry, 


THE  QUICK  OR  THE  DEAD  255 

but  awake  with  a  forest  of  sappy,  reedy  shoots,  greedy  for 
air  and  sunlight.  The  town  was  transforming.  Where 
least  solid  it  was  most  alive.  The  generations  were  cleav- 
ing apart  with  the  rapidity  of  change  that  belongs  to  the 
end  of  an  epoch.  The  young,  as  ever,  were  a  different  race 
from  the  old ;  but,  paradoxically,  the  gay  laxity  of  the  new 
times  had  carried  many  an  old-timer  into  the  ranks  of 
pleasure  and  youth.  Old  men  played  golf  and  drank  high- 
balls ;  old  women  dyed  their  gray  hair  black.  At  one  end 
was  the  "  smart  set  " ;  at  the  other,  the  "  plain  people." 
One  could  choose  between  them.  But  if  the  first  was  a 
little  cheap,  the  old  order,  in  its  narrowness,  its  snuffy 
respectability,  was  impossible,  at  least  for  an  emancipated 
youth  of  twenty-two.  Robert  preferred  the  quick  to  the 
dead. 

The  detachment  he  had  learned  from  Mary  gave  him 
armor  for  this  venturing  down  into  a  world  that  was  a  little 
vulgar  and  completely  unspiritual.  He  did  not  go  to 
sneer,  nor  to  play  the  superior;  but  he  guarded  his  heart, 
hid  his  emotions,  smiled  more,  talked  less,  and  enjoyed  the 
comedy  of  life  that  was  amusing  if  it  was  not  his  own.  In 
the  French  he  was  reading  to  clarify  and  ease  his  English 
style,  he  came  across  Anatole  France,  and  found  a  brisk 
intellectual  pleasure  in  applying  his  keen  yet  sympathetic 
irony  to  Millingtown.  The  value  of  the  commonplace 
mind  as  reality  and  as  evidence  of  what  human  nature 
really  was,  came  home  to  him.  Two  years  ago,  Joe  Brown, 
on  how  to  sell  the  new  trust  stocks  to  maiden  ladies,  would 
have  bored  him  in  spite  of  Joe's  delightful  confusion  of 
moral  values;  not  so  now.  A  year  ago  Mary  Flint's  at- 
tempts to  be  risque  in  her  conversation  without  becoming 
common,  would  have  merely  disgusted  him.  He  was  more 
human  to-day,  perhaps  less  fine,  certainly  more  master  of 
himself.     He  led  her  on. 


256  OUK  HOUSE 

But  the  detachment  he  practiced  so  readily  in  life  was 
too  fragile  for  transference  into  art.  He  could  play  the 
looker-on  at  life  with  every  one  except  Cousin  Jenny. 
When  it  came  to  emulating  Anatole  France  by  capturing 
it  in  words  —  this  bubble  Millingtown  —  he  failed  and 
failed  heavily.  He  missed  bitterly  the  intellectual  support 
that  Mary  gave  him;  he  missed  the  stimulus  of  thought 
about  life  other  than  his  own.  He  could  not  swing  his  pen 
into  the  emotional  enthusiasm  to  which  alone  his  imagina- 
tion responded.  It  was  easy  to  feel  the  character  of  Mill- 
ingtown ;  when  it  came  to  write  it  out  he  was  lame  and  im- 
potent. He  was  a  fly,  afloat,  but  helpless  to  crawl  out  of 
the  cup.  There  was  no  leverage,  no  point  d'appui.  He 
found  himself  trying  to  photograph  Joe  Brown  or  good 
old  Jen,  or  Saturday  afternoon  at  the  club,  and  getting 
nowhere. 

He  could  not  set  these  figures  against  their  environment. 
They  slipped  back  into  crude  reality ;  his  writing  became  a 
mere  description  of  the  life  about  him.  Dimly  he  realized 
how  hard  it  is  for  the  worker  to  work  alone,  and  keep  his 
point  of  view.  Millingtown  was  sucking  him  in.  Soon  he 
would  see  it  with  the  eye  of  discrimination  no  more  than 
the  inhabitants  of  Cranford  saw  their  village,  or  the  Rev- 
erend Collins  the  parish  in  which  he  worked.  In  angry 
resolution  he  started  again  a  romantic  story  in  which 
everything  from  the  thought  involved  to  the  very  turn 
of  the  incidental  conversation  should  be  as  different  as 
possible  from  all  he  knew  in  Millingtown.  It  used  up 
three  months  and  stopped  his  flow  of  Crowf ootian  stories ; 
and  then  went  aground  on  the  ebbing  sands  of  a  vacant 
mind.  When  it  had  cooled  a  little,  he  took  it  up  for  an- 
other attempt,  read  it,  and  saw  too  clearly  that  it  was  a 
fabrication  of  his  brain  only,  cold,  intricate,  a  thousand 
miles  from  life. 


THE  QUICK  OE  THE  DEAD  257 

The  gods  denied  him  creativeness,  but  gave  him  insight. 
Pacing  up  and  down  in  his  room  when  he  should  have  been 
working,  he  saw  with  futile  clarity  what  life  had  done  to 
him,  in  common  with  so  many  others  of  his  race.  He  be- 
gan to  envisage  the  American  problem.  The  American 
community  was  like  American  scenery,  sharp  at  the  edges, 
clear-cut.  There  were  no  transitions,  no  fringes.  You 
had  to  be  in  it,  or  out  of  it.  If  you  stepped  out  of  busi- 
ness and  domesticity  and  the  mediocre  joys  and  virtues, 
the  community  drew  you  back ;  or  disowned  you,  shut  you 
off  from  what  was  most  alive  in  America.  That  was  why 
so  many  artists  fled  to  Europe.  The  community  was 
with  them  there,  or  at  least  not  against  them.  That  was 
why  so  many  American  writers  had  hid  themselves  in  ob- 
scure parsonages,  or  village  backwaters,  or  the  dreams  of 
opium,  in  order  to  preserve  the  illusion  that  they  were 
speaking  for  America.  A  month  in  the  midst  of  the  Amer- 
ican community  would  have  exposed  the  fallacy  —  might 
have  dragged  their  imaginations  back  to  the  base  level  of 
the  crowd,  or  sent  them  scurrying  to  England  or  to  Italy 
for  a  background  of  sympathetic  interest,  for  a  society  of 
minds. 

"  I'm  a  coward,"  said  Eobert  Roberts.  "  I  ought  to 
break  away  and  go  where  I  can  get  out  what's  in  me ;  the 
trouble  is  that  I'm  too  fond  of  it  all  —  this  Millingtown." 
The  truth  was  that  only  one  place  outside  of  Millingtown 
would  have  helped  him,  Italy,  where  Mary  was,  and  there 
he  could  not  go  yet. 

And  it  was  not  cowardice  —  at  least  it  was  not  all  cow- 
ardice. Dimly  the  Idea  began  to  shape  itself.  The  great 
writers  that  were  coming  would  not  try  to  escape  from 
America;  they  would  swim  with  the  current,  bathe  in 
mediocrity  gladly,  find  the  heart  of  greatness  that  was 
beating  somewhere,  and  pulsate  with  it.     For  after  all,  the 


258  OUR  HOUSE 

difference  between  a  vivid  life  and  a  dull  one  was  just  in 
the  estimation  of  the  liver.  There  was  nothing  essentially 
stupid,  crawling,  material  in  Millingtown  —  how  could 
there  be  in  any  life  that  was  potential  for  every  evil  and 
every  good?  Florence  was  no  larger  than  Millingtown. 
Was  it  so  much  better  and  greater  in  itself?  Undoubt- 
edly, but  it  was  the  Florentine's  view  of  Florence  that 
made  some,  at  least,  of  the  difference.  And  if  a  writer 
could  take  this  dull  fabric  of  everyday  life  and  show  what 
magic  strands  were  woven  in  it  —  how  much  pathos,  how 
much  joy,  how  much  capability  for  all  things  that  had  be- 
come frieze  instead  of  carpet  of  Persia,  because  dull  frieze 
was  all  the  weaver  sought,  why  that  would  be  service,  and 
literature,  and  truth.  His  mind  flashed  up  and  down  the 
streets  of  Millingtown,  and  as  it  dwelt  upon  this  personal- 
ity and  that,  each  shone  back  in  turn  like  dew  drops  in  the 
grass  as  a  lantern  swings  past  them.  But  how  could 
one  warm  one's  imagination,  one's  style  to  it,  here  in  Mill- 
ingtown ! 

It  was  a  vision  of  the  night.  He  had  climbed  too  high. 
In  the  morning  he  was  back  in  the  lowlands,  discouraged, 
dull,  in  the  trough  again  of  his  reaction  against  all  such 
strained  and  vivid  living  as  he  had  known  too  well  with 
Mary.  Some  one  would  do  the  great  thing  —  but  he,  Rob- 
ert Roberts,  what  was  he  but  one  of  the  crowd,  drifting 
with  the  current,  a  drop  among  other  drops  ?  This  morn- 
ing he  would  write  a  story  as  "  they  "  would  like  to  have 
it,  a  story  of  Millingtown  as  rosy  sentiment  would  desire 
—  romantic  and  mediocre;  in  the  afternoon  he  would  play 
tennis,  in  the  evening  he  would  read  and  think  a  while  to 
preserve  his  immortal  soul  —  God  knows  for  what  — 
("making  good"  was  a  dream  like  the  others)  — and  so 
to  bed ! 

"  Jen,"  he  asked,  as  they  rested  between  sets  that  day, 


THE  QUICK  OE  THE  DEAD  259 

"  I'm  beginning  a  story.  What  kind  of  a  story  goes  best, 
do  you  think  ?  " 

Jen  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  "Are  you  trying  to 
jolly  me,  Rob  ?  " 

"  No,  honestly,  I'm  not.  I'd  like  to  write  the  kind  of 
story  you  would  like  to  read." 

"  Don't  read  much." 

"  But  you'd  read  mine,  wouldn't  you,  Jen  ? "  he  asked 
suavely. 

"  Of  course,  Rob,  unless  it's  too  high-brow  for  me. 
Mother  lent  me  a  book  that  I  liked  last  summer.  I  forget 
it's  name,  but  it  was  the  best  book !  All  about  a  handsome 
Yale  man  who  went  into  politics  or  something  and  then 
fell  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  the  boss  he  was  fighting." 

"  He  had  a  square*  jaw,  didn't  he  1  and  high  ideals  ?  and 
the  girl  was  willowy  and  winsome,  and  he  gave  up  every- 
thing for  her,  but  couldn't  forsake  his  principles?  And 
then  she  reformed  her  father  and  he  made  a  pot  of  money. 
It  all  happened  in  Philadelphia." 

"  No,  New  York,  and  the  love  part  in  the  Adirondacks," 
Jen  interrupted  innocently.  "  Wasn't  it  great !  I  wish 
you'd  write  a  story  like  that,  Rob." 

"  I  think  I  will,"  said  Robert  Roberts,  and  to  himself 
he  added  weakly,  "  You've  got  to  begin  by  making  '  them  ' 
like  the  thing  you  do,  whatever  comes  afterwards."  And 
whether  that  was  cowardly  compromise  or  common  sense 
was  a  mystery. 

He  did  it  with  ease,  for  he  had  the  sense  of  narrative, 
and  a  facile  touch  upon  sentiment.  He  ripped  off  the 
pages,  scores  at  a  sitting ;  until  he  forgot  himself  and  was 
highly  emotional  in  earnest;  yet  remembered  the  rules  of 
the  game  and  kept  down  to  universal  intelligence ;  despised 
his  materials  at  first,  but  not  when  they  warmed  beneath 
his  hands,  and  therefore  drew  forth  all  the  humor  and 


260  OUR  HOUSE 

pathos  they  possessed.  In  short,  he  wrote  with  keen  pleas- 
ure and  no  effort,  naturally,  simply,  and  with  the  verve 
which  accompanies  a  jeu  d'esprit  lightly  held,  firmly 
grasped.  But  so  certain  was  he  that  the  warp  of  his  story 
was  false  and  its  woof  mere  sentiment  that  he  refused  to 
take  satisfaction  in  his  achievement.  A  sense  of  art  be- 
trayed clouded  his  judgment;  even  when  he  sold  the  tale 
for  five  hundred  dollars  and  book  rights  to  follow  serial 
publication,  he  was  more  ashamed  than  proud.  He  had 
bent  the  knee  to  Baal  and  Baal  had  heard  him.  And  so 
instead  of  beginning  another  story  of  the  same  kind,  he  put 
off  the  day  of  sacrifice  until  it  should  be  demanded  of  him, 
settled  down  still  more  comfortably  in  his  easy  corner  of 
Millingtown,  let  one  cocktail  run  to  two  at  the  club,  and 
put  his  money,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  crowd,  into  stocks 
on  margin. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   GO!D   OF   CASH 

ROBERT  expected  a  reaction.  He  expected  to  wake 
up  some  morning  full  of  confident  resolve  and  to 
write  to  Mary :  "  I've  pulled  myself  together  at  last.  I'm 
a  new  man  and  very  humble  and  determined  to  make  the 
best  of  myself.  Won't  you  come  back  ?  "  And  instead, 
every  day  he  strolled  on  through  Millingtown,  quite  sleep- 
ily content,  while  a  subtle  distrust  of  everything  that  had 
urged  him  away  from  the  commonplace  toward  some  un- 
known but  special  destiny,  poisoned  his  will.  He  believed 
in  everything  he  had  believed  in  before,  but  he  was  not 
sure  that  he  wanted  it.  If  Mary  had  come  back  he  would 
have  been  unhappy  in  her  presence.  He  wanted  to  be 
happy.  The  traits  of  his  comfortable,  bourgeois  heredity, 
hitherto  recessive,  were  taking  an  airing.  Were  they  dom- 
inant, after  all  ?  Less  and  less  seldom  did  he  seem  to 
care.     And  so  he  did  not  write  her. 

Experience  had  taught  him  honesty,  if  nothing  else. 
Need  of  money  aroused  him.  The  first  god  of  Milling- 
town  had  been  a  jealous  god  who  demanded  men's  prin- 
ciples as  well  as  their  worship ;  the  second  god  of  Milling- 
town  was  Respectability ;  the  third  and  contemporary  deity 
was  Cash.  He  was  not  a  miserly,  nor  even  a  sordid,  god. 
Money  was  to  be  spent,  not  saved,  in  his  worship,  and  spent 
for  civilization  as  well  as  luxury.  The  new  era,  flickering 
in  with  Mrs.  Roberts'  dinner  candles,  was  now  fully  alight. 
Self-respecting  people  were  conforming  to  new  standards 
of  dress  and  food  and  amusement,  most  of  them  good,  some 
of  them  a  vast  improvement  on  the  old.     The  bourgeois 

261 


262  OUR  HOUSE 

came  out  of  their  immemorial  streets,  and  went  to  the 
Country  Club  for  diversion.  Automobiles  were  coming 
in;  the  stock  market  was  booming;  prices  were  going  up. 
It  cost  more  to  live  as  one  had  lived ;  but  then  no  one  did. 
All  lived  more  expensively.  Even  parasitical  young  bache- 
lors felt  the  drain.  Robert's  bank  account  dwindled;  his 
bills  piled  up.  The  five  hundred  dollars  he  had  put  on 
margin  was  sorely  needed ;  but  it  was  tied  up  in  a  doubtful 
speculation.  He  required,  and  there  was  no  time  to  call 
upon  Baal,  two  hundred  dollars  quickly.  If  he  sold  now 
he  would  have  his  two  hundred;  if  he  waited,  perhaps  a 
thousand.  Who  could  advise  him?  Suddenly  it  flashed 
upon  him  that  Bill,  steady  old  Bill,  was  in  Philadelphia 
in  one  of  the  new  trusts  —  on  the  inside  probably ;  and 
there  was  no  one's  judgment  so  good  as  Bill's.  He  sought 
him  out. 

The  central  offices  of  the  United  States  Cracker  Com- 
pany covered  seeming  acres  of  floor  space  aclick  with  type- 
writers and  ahum  with  busy  people.  Robert's  memory 
pricked  and  stirred  him  as,  waiting,  he  watched  the  rip- 
pling sea  of  bent  heads  and  heard  the  rush  of  Big  Business 
endlessly  throbbing.  It  was  Trimbill's  vision  realized. 
In  imagination  he  felt  the  pulsating  flow  of  energy  radiat- 
ing toward  factories,  stores,  busy  minds  all  over  the  coun- 
try from  this  great  brain  that  thought  in  millions,  and 
traded  with  the  world.  It  was  the  first  sensation  of  real 
bigness,  of  real  power,  that  had  come  to  him  since  he  set' 
tied  down  in  Millingtown. 

Bill  he  found  at  lastnn  a  little  pen  surrounded  by  obedi- 
ent stenographers,  himself  calm  and  steady  as  ever,  like  a 
pivot  in  the  great  machine.  Robert  admired  the  ease  with 
which  he  finished  his  dictation,  called  up  the  busy  heads 
about  him,  fed  them  with  orders,  jabbed  buttons  for  mys- 
terious errands  in  the  distance,  swept  his  papers  into  files 


THE  GOD  OF  CASH  263 

that  gaped  for  them,  and  swung  about,  the  same  old  Bill, 
ready  for  talk.  It  was  clear  that  he  had  found  himself, 
if,  indeed,  his  kind  ever  needed  to  be  found. 

They  talked.     Then,  hesitantly,  Robert  asked  for  advice. 

"  Sell  it,"  Bill  said  quietly  — "  here's  the  telephone;  sell 
it  now.  It's  half  water.  What  business  have  you  to  be 
meddling  with  stuff  like  that  ?  It's  a  speculator's  chance ; 
you're  —  you're  a  writer,  aren't  you,  Rob  ?  " 

u  A  writer,"  Robert  answered,  "  needs  money ;  especially 
a  bad  one.  Writing's  uncertain,  Bill  —  not  like  this  — " 
he  waved  his  hand  inclusively.  "  My  checks  are  far  apart. 
Living's  getting  high  in  Millingtown.  I  had  to  try  for 
ready  cash  somewhere." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Bill  with  his  slow  smile,  "  that  you 
rather  looked  down  on  money,  Rob.  I  thought  that  you 
didn't  much  care  for  living  in  Millingtown." 

"  I  thought,"  Robert  answered,  "  that  I'd  be  a  great 
man  or  a  failure  by  this  time,  Bill.  Now  I'm  neither  — 
stuck  on  the  ways.  And  Millingtown's  not  half  bad,"  he 
added  irrelevantly.  "  Only  I  can't  write  what  I  want 
there." 

"  Why  don't  you  pull  out  \  You  lived  on  next  to  noth- 
ing, so  you  wrote  me,  in  New  York." 

Robert  shifted  uneasily.  "  I've  had  some  knocks  since 
then,  Bill.  I'm  trying  to  heal  the  bruises  at  home.  And 
anyhow  if  I'm  to  do  anything,  it's  got  to  be  in  Millingtown. 
Look  here  —  I'll  tell  you  about  myself." 

But  Bill  was  alarmed.  "  No,  please  don't,"  he  pleaded, 
and  Robert  remembered  how  quickly  he  dropped  from  the 
conversation  in  the  old  days  when  it  became  too  personal. 
"  I'm  no  good  there ;  never  was.  But  money's  easy  to 
make,  Rob,  if  you  really  want  it." 

"  Easy  for  me  ?  I'll  stump  you  on  that  proposition,  old 
fellow." 


264  OUE  HOUSE 

Bill's  eyes  lit  with  the  gleam  which  used  to  illumine 
TrimhilPs.  He  let  his  glance  wander  for  an  instant 
around  the  busy  spaces.  "  We're  making  a  million  a  week 
gross,  here,  Kob  —  just  through  combination,  and  greater 
efficiency.  It's  a  new  way  of  doing  business.  If  the 
speculators  don't  run  away  with  us,  we'll  transform  the 
economic  life  of  the  country.  I'm  not  an  enthusiast  like 
you,  but  honestly,  I  can  scarcely  pull  myself  away  from 
here  at  night." 

"  I  know,"  said  Robert  wearily.  "  It  inspires  me  too, 
because  it's  big ;  but  it's  not  my  game ;  it's  not  my  kind  of 
bigness,  if  there  is  any  bigness  for  me.  You're  sailing 
with  the  wind;  I'm  stuck  in  the  mud.  Let's  keep  to  the 
cash  question." 

"  That's  what  I'm  getting  to.  A  fellow,"  he  spoke  ten- 
tatively, "  with  your  imagination,  Eob,  could  help.  I 
suppose  you'd  turn  up  your  nose  at  advertising;  but  hon- 
estly, it's  big  work.  Look  here  —  I'm  in  charge  of  part 
of  our  selling.  A  hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  stuff 
more  or  less  goes  through  my  office  every  morning.  And 
all  that's  got  to  be  distributed.  If  we  try  something  new 
that  the  people  don't  know  about,  the  stuff  backs  up  on  me. 
If  they  forget  about  the  old  kinds,  those  back  up  on  me. 
People  have  to  be  told  what  they  want.  It's  a  big  prob- 
lem, Rob." 

Eobert  was  touched  by  the  humbleness  of  big  business 
in  the  presence  of  his  minuscule  power  of  art.  "  You're  a 
friend  of  mine,  Bill.  Otherwise  you'd  never  talk  that 
way.  What  do  I  know  about  the  cracker  business,  or  ad- 
vertising ?  " 

"  You  don't  have  to,"  and  for  once  old  Bill  was  bitter. 
"  It's  human  nature  that  counts,  not  the  stuff  we  try  to 
sell  them.  Look  at  that,"  he  pointed  through  the  window 
at  a  soup  advertisement  whose  inviting  caption  suggested 


THE  GOD  OF  CASH  265 

steaming  richness  warming  the  cockles  of  the  heart. 
"  That  soup  is  no  better  than  others ;  but  it  sells  twice  as 
well.  It  distributes;  the  others  don't.  Advertising  did 
it.  Come  over  and  meet  our  publicity  man.  He's  got  the 
imagination  we  need,  but  he  can't  control  it.  He  boils 
over  all  day  long  like  a  sugar  kettle.  All  you'd  have  to 
do  would  be  to  catch  the  drippings  and  make  sense  out  of 
them.  He  can't."  They  crossed  the  floor  to  a  glassed-in 
office,  entered,  and,  at  a  desk  aflutter  with  yellow  paper, 
found  —  Trimbill. 

"  I'm  vury,  vury  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Roberts."  It  was 
the  old  voice,  and  the  old  oiliness,  as  he  jumped  up  to  greet 
them.  "  Glad  you've  come  to  look  at  a  big  business.  Real 
estate  was  too  small  for  me.  Why,"  his  eyes  caught  fire, 
"  where  we  sold  one  house,  this  corporation  sells  a  hun- 
dred thousand  boxes  of  the  best  crackers  the  teeth  of  man 
ever  broke  into.  Why,  Robert,  do  you  know  that  in  every 
ten  hours  by  the  clock  our  factories  turn  out  enough  biscuits 
to  pave  the  streets  of  any  city  of  the  second  order  in  the 
United  States  of  Amurrica !  It's  my  business  to  make  that 
known,  Robert.     Sit  down,  gentlemen.     Smoke  cigars  ?  " 

The  office  was  adrift  with  scribbled  note-paper  and 
press  clippings.  On  the  desk,  a  single  sheet  affixed  by 
thumb  tacks,  showed  black  and  large  the  beginnings  of  a 
caption : 

"Eat  United  States  Crackers  and  be — " 

"  I  find  it  difficult  to  compress,"  said  Trimbill,  pointing 
to  the  paper.  "  I  can  get  the  public  on  reading  notices 
and  circulars,  but  when  it  comes  to  what  I  suppose  a  liter- 
ary man  would  call  '  epeegrams,'  I  find  it  difficult.  My 
style's  flowin',  ain't  it,  Mr.  Williams?  Now  why  don't 
some  of  you  literary  chaps  help  us  out  ?  There's  money 
in  it,  ain't  there,  Mr.  Williams  %  " 


266  OUK  HOUSE 

"  There  is,"  said  Bill ;  and  before  they  left  Robert  had 
agreed  at  least  to  try  his  hand. 

Bill  closed  the  door  upon  the  tide  of  eloquence  at  flood 
height,  and  held  him  for  an  instant  in  the  corridor  which 
led  to  the  great  spaces  of  the  floor.  "  That's  organized," 
he  said  quietly,  pointing  outward.  "  This,"  he  nodded 
back  at  Trimbill's  sanctum,  "  is  not.  He's  a  drummer  by 
nature,  good  for  stirring  up  interest,  but  given  to  wind. 
We  want  to  put  him  on  road  work  in  small  towns  as  soon 
as  we  can  get  a  man  for  his  place,  the  right  man.  The 
best  of  our  advertising  stuff  now  is  free-lance,  comes  from 
part-time  fellows  outside,  as  yours  will;  but  some  day  it 
will  be  a  profession  and  just  as  efficient  as  the  rest.  I  wish 
you'd  go  in  for  it,  Rob." 

"  I  wish  I  could,"  said  Robert  politely,  but  in  spite  of 
his  amused  distaste,  the  idea  struck  home.  Struck  home  so 
persuasively  that  on  the  way  down  to  Millingtown  he  cov- 
ered his  note-book  sheets  with  ideas  for  "  epeegrams,"  and 
the  next  morning  finished  off  a  likely  one,  which  was  sent 
to  Bill  and  promptly  accepted. 

Moreover,  the  game  began  to  fascinate  him.  Each 
morning  he  nibbled  a  little  more  and  a  little  more  off  his 
writing  hours,  assorting  and  condensing  and  refining  the 
masses  of  material  that  Trimbill  sent  him,  extracting  its 
essence,  reducing  it  all  to  vibrant  "  human  appeal."  He 
expected,  week  by  week,  a  spiritual  revolt  against  such 
spiritual  slavery.  It  hung  back;  the  checks  poured  in. 
His  financial  difficulties  evaporated;  he  ran  a  fat  bank 
account;  three  months  after  his  first  trip  to  the  United 
States  Cracker  Company  he  was  making  more  from  epi- 
grams than  his  writing  had  ever  brought  him  —  even  what 
he  was  pleased  to  call  his  bad  writing.  The  crowd  at  the 
club  congratulated  him  warmly.  He  had  earned  a  place 
in  their  world.     It  began  to  be  said  that  Robert  Roberts 


THE  GOD  OF  CASH  267 

And  he  was  happy  in  a  way,  and  merry, 
and  most  comfortable ;  but  in  his  heart  of  hearts  a  little 
dull,  a  little  slack,  and  very  lonely. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  with  a  sense  of  earned  and  antici- 
pated triumph  that  he  opened  on  the  first  of  June,  a  letter 
from  the  executive  secretary  of  the  Cracker  Company, 
offering  him  a  position  as  staff  advertisement  writer  at  a 
fair  salary,  with  hints  of  rosy  prospects  ahead.  In  the 
next  envelope  was  a  note  from  Dug  reminding  him  of  the 
approaching  wedding,  and  a  line  from  "  Peaches  and 
Cream  "  inviting  him  to  a  preliminary  house  party.  It 
was  the  wedding  budget  that  he  answered  first.  His  mind 
would  not  react  to  the  business  offer.  He  had  expected  it. 
He  had  pushed  consciously  toward  it.  Never  once  had  he 
been  able  to  come  to  grips  with  a  decision  to  refuse  or 
accept  it,  if  it  came.  The  consciousness  of  Mary,  all  she 
had  hoped  for  him,  stood  in  the  way.  And  now  it  seemed 
better  to  go  to  the  wedding  first,  and  decide  afterward. 
The  truth  was  that  he  wanted  to  be  drifted  into  a  decision 
with  no  foolish  heartburnings  over  art  and  destiny,  and 
what  it  would  mean  to  Mary.  The  truth  was  that  he  was 
hungry  for  a  different  companionship  than  Millingtown 
was  offering ;  that  he  wanted  to  feel  himself  again  among 
friends,  outside  of  "  cousins  and  aunts  "  and  "  old  crowds," 
before  he  changed  tracks  for  good.  The  truth  was  that  he 
wanted  to  kick  his  heels  up  once  more,  a  free  lance  with 
an  unknown  future,  before  he  should  enter  the  harness  and 
the  stall.  Real  motives,  each  and  all  of  them,  but  inex- 
tricably mixed. 

There  was  one  more  packet  in  the  mail  for  him  —  a 
magazine.  He  opened  it  carelessly,  and  saw  his  name  on 
the  cover  with  slight  prickles  of  gratification  only,  for  he 
had  passed  the  first  intoxication  of  print.  The  opening 
installment  of  his  story  lay  before  a  world  of  jaded  readers. 


268  OUR  HOUSE 

"  Cheap  stuff,"  he  thought  contemptuously.  "  I  know 
how  it  will  read."  Nevertheless,  he  carried  the  magazine 
hastily  upstairs  and  began  at  the  beginning. 

A  half  an  hour  later,  with  singing  brain  and  beating 
heart,  he  hurried  out  into  the  shade  of  the  garden.  At 
first  he  could  not  analyze  his  own  sensations.  It  was 
cheap.  Why  should  it  move  him  ?  People  were  not  like 
that !  Every  paragraph  was  a  play  to  the  galleries.  His 
heart  beat  back,  "  True,  true,  true  —  but  I  can  write.  I 
can  write !  "  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  let  himself  go, 
regardless  of  subject.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  crossed 
that  barrier  of  painful  endeavor  which  cramps  the  fingers 
of  the  beginner.  And  there  was  style  in  it;  there  was 
rhythm;  there  was  expressiveness;  most  of  all  there  was 
the  warm  imagination  that  had  failed  him  in  every  attempt 
to  do  the  character  of  Millingtown.  He  strode  up  and 
down  in  the  golden  shade  of  the  grape  arbor,  aglow  and 
atingle  with  the  force  of  his  emotions.  Up  they  swarmed 
—  ambition,  idealism,  love  of  life,  the  passion  for  self- 
expression,  as  he  had  not  felt  them  since  that  last  night 
with  Mary  had  drained  him  dry.  Where  had  they  been 
all  these  months  ?  Why  had  this  trivial  discovery  released 
them  ?  All  he  understood  was  that  now  for  the  first  time 
Le  knew  that  he  could  write.  Now  for  the  first  time  the 
vision  of  interpreting  Millingtown  called  to  a  power  re- 
vealed in  him,  challenged  him,  became  a  possibility,  a  duty, 
a  privilege  for  him.  He  had  thought.  He  had  felt. 
Now  he  could  write.  Mary  —  if  he  could  tell  her ;  if  he 
could  feel  that  she  believed  in  him ! 

The  familiar  town  hummed  its  morning  tune  about  him, 
cheerily,  pettily,  comfortably.  He  wondered  why  it  had 
ever  frightened  him;  why  it  had  bespelled  him  into  leth- 
argy and  bestial  content.  After  all,  it  was  only  half  his 
life.     And  then  he  glanced  at  the  blank  windows  of  Mary's 


THE  GOD  OF  CASH  269 

house  with  a  tender  comprehension.  She  had  fought 
against  this  pleasant  spirit  of  the  commonplace;  she  had 
preserved  her  intellectual  being  at  a  heavy  cost,  turning 
bitter,  and  anti-social,  drying  up  at  the  heart.  And  he 
had  been  sliding  into  an  easy  existence  of  Country  Clubs, 
and  a  future  mortgaged  to  income  and  expenditure,  with- 
out a  kick,  without  a  struggle.  "  For  who  would  lose, 
though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being  ?  "  It  was  a 
little  large  for  the  purpose,  but  expressed  his  thought. 

"  Is  it  thee  that's  going  to  be  married  I  "  Cousin  Jenny 
asked  wonderingly,  as  he  came  in,  his  face  ruddy,  his 
eyes  alight,  his  hair  ablow  with  June  breezes. 

"  I'm  ready  for  that,  or  anything,"  said  Robert  Roberts. 
"  The  Spring's  in  my  blood."     And  he  kissed  them  both. 

His  mother  had  read  the  letter  from  the  Cracker  Com- 
pany. "  Thee'll  steady  down,  now,  dear  ?  "  was  her  word, 
a  word  which  revealed  to  Robert  anxieties  for  his  relaxing 
life  in  Millingtown  that  he  had  been  too  sluggish  to  guess. 
"  Thee'll  take  it,  of  course." 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  chilled  for  a  moment ;  and 
indeed  he  did  not  know,  being  too  busy  with  the  knowledge 
that  Spring  had  come  back  to  him,  that  he  could  feel 
vividly,  live  vividly,  and  write,  to  realize  that  he  had  come 
to  the  fork  of  the  road.  u  I'll  decide  after  the  wedding. 
Romance  before  business." 

The  word  flashed  and  sparkled  in  his  mind,  irradiating 
corners  long  dusky.  And  suddenly  he  remembered  with 
seeming  irrelevance  that  Katherine  Gray  was  Ethel's  old- 
est friend;  Katherine  was  sure  to  be  at  the  wedding; 
Katherine,  who  had  been  to  him  his  first  romance !  With 
a  quick  transference  the  warmth  and  the  youth  in  his 
mind  streamed  momentarily  toward  her  well-remembered 
figure.  She  fitted  his  mood.  What  had  she  become  ?  As 
her  physical  presence  came  back  to  him  with  the  stir  and 


270  OUR  HOUSE 

the  dizziness  that  had  always  accompanied  it,  he  guessed 
with  sudden  acuteness  that  some  dim  ideal  of  her  face,  her 
memory,  had  been  the  earthly  form  of  his  dreams  of  per- 
fect love.  It  was  she  that  held  him  bac"^  from  Mary.  Or 
was  it  she  ?  Was  it  not  his  vision  of  romance  choosing  this 
incarnation  ?  u  Time  to  settle  the  question,"  he  thought, 
none  too  seriously,  but  with  a  pricking  of  emotion  that 
promised  interest  for  the  wedding.  "  I  wonder  if  she 
can  whistle  the  veerie  —  now." 

Cousin  Jenny  tweaked  his  ear  as  he  smoked  and  medi- 
tated. "  Don't  fall  in  love  with  a  nincompoop  bridesmaid. 
Wait  — " 

"  Wait  for  whom,  a  princess  ?  " 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  saw  Cousin  Jenny  flush 
and  stammer  and  fail  of  her  repartee.  "  Just  wait  — 
thee'll  see  —» 

Puzzled  for  a  moment,  he  threw  his  cigarette  away,  and 
rushed  up  stairs  three  at  a  time  to  pack  his  bag  and  be  off 
by  the  9 :30. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    MYSTERIOUS    STRANGER 

SEATED  in  the  New  Haven  train  on  the  way  to  the 
house  party,  Robert  moved  his  suit  case  to  make  room 
for  a  stranger,  a  restless,  twitching  man  with  a  goatee,  a 
faintly  clerical  collar,  and  an  eyeglass  swung  by  a  braid; 
and  then  let  his  eyes  wander  back  to  the  paper  boy  who 
was  plodding  down  the  aisle  under  a  towering  load  of 
magazines,  his  magazine.  "  June  number,  just  out." 
His  companion  bought  one,  settled  back,  adjusted  his 
glasses,  and  began  to  read  the  story  by  Robert  Roberts. 

Robert  settled  himself  also  and  with  a  pleasant  tickle 
read  with  him  over  his  shoulder,  disgruntled  when  the 
stranger  seemed  to  skip  ahead,  impatient  when  he  lagged, 
so  exciting  was  this  experience  of  reading  his  own  through 
another's  eyes.     It  read  well.     He  leaned  nearer. 

The  stranger  reached  the  end,  grunted,  closed  the  maga- 
zine, and  looked  up,  musing,  into  Robert's  eager  eyes. 
There  was  no  time  to  shift.  "  Like  to  read  it  ?  "  he  said 
pleasantly.     "  I'm  through." 

Robert  chose  candor  as  the  best  way  out.  "  No,  thanks, 
I  read  it  with  you.     How  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Hum,"  said  the  stranger,  wrinkling  his  brow  pro- 
fessionally.    "  How  do  you  ?  " 

Robert  was  intrigued  by  the  situation.  "  Rather  well 
written,"  he  answered,  repressing  his  smile,  u  but  unreal, 
and  a  little  sentimental.  Everybody's  sweet  or  noble  ex- 
cept the  villains ;  and  all  the  good  people  get  a  prize." 

"  Why  shouldn't  they  ?  "  said  the  stranger  with  unex- 

271 


272  OUR  HOUSE 

pected  vehemence.  "  Why  shouldn't  stories  be  pure,  and 
noble,  and  uplifting?  You're  not  a  cynic,  I  hope,  my 
friend  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I'm  not,"  answered  Robert  stoutly.  "  It 
isn't  cynical  to  want  books  to  be  reasonably  true  to  life,  is 
it  ?  Life  isn't  all  sweetness,  and  optimism,  and  romance, 
and  pretty  pathos.  It  isn't  true,  this  story  —  not  wholly 
true,  I  mean." 

"  But  don't  you  wish  it  were  ?  "  said  the  stranger,  with 
a  commiserating  glance.  "  And  when  we  all  wish  that 
hard  enough,  pain,  and  sorrow,  and  evil,  and  error  will 
disappear."  He  whirled  his  glasses  neatly  into  his  left 
hand,  and  polished  them  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"  What  curious  books  we  should  have,"  Robert  mused, 
not  wholly  displeased,  for  after  all  approval  was  approval, 
"  what  curious  books,  if  every  one  felt  as  you  do.  No  pain, 
no  sorrow,  no  evil  —  all  error.  No  hard  luck  either,  I 
suppose.  Wouldn't  it  be  like  a  diet  of  chocolate  creams 
and  soda  water  I  " 

The  stranger  was  undisturbed.  "  None  of  those  things 
really  exist,"  he  remarked  calmly.  "  Error  brings  them 
into  life.  Why  not  — "  he  waved  suavely  — "  keep  them 
out  of  our  books  ?  " 

u  You  can't,"  urged  Robert  hotly.  "  Look  here ;  I 
wrote  that  story.  Yes,  I'm  Robert  Roberts  —  and  not  a 
very  famous  person,  for  I'm  just  beginning.  But  I'm 
tired  of  that  way  of  writing  already.  I'm  tired  of  senti- 
mental lying.  Whatever  the  world's  going  to  be  in  the 
future,  this  easy  optimism  is  certainly  false  now.  And 
what's  more  practical,  I  don't  believe  the  public  will  take 
much  more  of  it.  I  don't  believe  — "  he  hesitated,  for  he 
was  arguing  against  hope  — "  that  they'll  like  this." 

The  stranger  smiled  with  bland  superiority.  "  I've 
been  an  editor,"  he  said.     "  I  know  what  the  American 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  STRANGER         273 

public  likes."  His  tone  of  prophetic  sacerdotalism 
dropped  noticeably  to  a  more  commercial  level.  "  They'll 
eat  up  stuff  like  that ;  they're  crazy  over  the  '  uplift.' 
You  can't  make  'em  read  stories  of  what  you  call  real  life. 
Try  it.  No,  my  friend,  you'd  better  join  us  — "  he  settled 
his  prophetic  mantle  back  on  his  shoulders.  "  We're  in- 
terpreting their  optimism.  We're  giving  them  life  as  it 
can  be  instead  of  life  as  it  is." 

"  Who  are  '  we  '  ?  "  asked  Robert. 

The  stranger  smiled  mysteriously.  "  Oh,  we're  not  or- 
ganized. We  don't  even  know  each  other.  But  most  of 
the  people  who  are  getting  on  belong.  The  '  boosters  '  are 
on  our  side,  and  the  chaps  who  do  magazine  covers,  and 
the  new-thought  churches,  and  the  fellows  who  write  ed- 
itorials for  back  pages, —  and  all  the  advertising  crowd, 
and  the  Christian  Scientists.  You  see  I'm  a  specialist  in 
it  —  in  the  '  uplift.'  I'm  at  the  heart  of  the  movement 
and  see  all  around." 

The  train  was  slowing  down  for  Bridgeport.  "  Good-by. 
I'm  lecturing  here.  Better  take  my  advice.  I  don't  often 
give  it  free."  Robert  found  a  card  on  his  knee,  "  Joseph 
Sellbridge,  New-Thought  Specialist.  Consultations,"  and 
watched  the  mysterious  stranger  drift  down  the  aisle. 
Was  he  an  oily  fraud,  or  a  cynical  philosopher  ?  Vaguely, 
a  new  profession,  that  of  fooling  the  good-natured,  pros- 
perous, shallow-minded  public  began  to  shape  itself  in  his 
mind. 

"  And  that's  where  '  noble,'  i  sweet,'  i  uplifting '  stories 
belong,"  he  thought  bitterly.  "  Thanks,  old  man,  for  your 
consultation."  On  impulse,  he  picked  up  the  maga- 
zine from  the  empty  seat  beside  him,  but  did  not  throw  it 
out  of  the  window  after  all.  The  style  was  good;  the 
emotion  was  true  enough.  At  least,  he  could  write !  And 
moreover,  the  "  advertising  crowd,"  were  in  the  same  game 


274  OUR  HOUSE 

— "  fooling  the  public,"  in  spite  of  Bill's  optimism.  It 
would  be  hard  to  be  honest  either  way.  "  Read,  and  be 
convinced  that  life  is  a  Rosy  Dream  " ;  or  "  Eat,  and  be 
Sure  that  Crumbly  Crackers  are  Best " —  one  job  was 
about  as  cheap  as  the  other;  and  between  them  was  the 
danger  of  drifting  aimlessly  or  relaxing  into  easy-going 
JVIillingtown !  "  A  nice  mood  I'm  in,"  Robert  murmured 
half  aloud,  "  to  be  going  to  a  wedding."  And  instead  of 
the  magazine  he  pitched  his  straining  thoughts  out  of  the 
window  into  the  June  sunshine. 


CHAPTER  IV 


SUMACH,    CEDAR,    AND    BAY 


""PEACHES  AND  CREAM"  summered  on  a  Con- 
I.  necticut  hilltop  where  her  ancestors,  with  that 
predilection  for  the  high  and  windy  ridges  that  character- 
ized New  England,  had  lifted  their  decorous  house,  white- 
clapboarded,  green-shuttered,  built  about  a  chimney  of 
gray  stone,  and  overhung  by  noble  elms  whose  luxuriance 
set  off  the  simple  beauty  of  the  building  beneath.  From 
the  lawn  in  front  one  looked  over  ridge  beyond  ridge  to 
the  distant  Sound  tingling  frostily.  The  country  was  all 
rugged  pasture,  grown  up  in  sumach  and  cedar  and  bay, 
waving  down  to  the  greener  floor  of  the  valley. 

It  was  a  pleasing  incongruity  to  see  Ethel  —  a  girl  so 
white  and  soft  and  provocative,  trip  out  of  that  rigorous 
house  and  wander  like  some  alien  tropic  moth  over  the 
harsh  pastures,  or  droop  like  an  orchid  on  the  grass  be- 
neath the  ponderous  elms.  The  charm  of  it,  and  the 
charm  of  her,  had  intrigued  Robert  Roberts  on  Junes  be- 
fore this  one.  In  the  turfy  orchard  behind  the  elms,  he 
had  experienced  the  dizzy  rapture  of  holding  her  hand. 
Eor  a  week  he  thought  that  he  loved  her,  his  senses  awhirl 
with  the  fragrance  of  fresh  and  voluptuous  youth. 
"  Peaches  and  Cream  "  they  called  her  —  savorous,  beauti- 
ful, but  pulpy  to  an  exacting  taste.  She  was  to  be  married 
at  Hillcrest  Farm. 

Robert  knew  well  the  hillside  path  that  led  from  the 
valley  station  to  Hillcrest.  Leaving  his  bag  to  come  up 
with  the  next  load  of  trunks,  he  swung  into  the  lucid  after- 

275 


276  OUR  HOUSE 

noon,  through  the  valley  oaks,  across  the  clover  meadows 
where  bobolinks  sparkled  melody,  up  past  the  meadowlarks 
and  the  quail,  and  on  to  the  high,  dry  pastures,  shimmer- 
ing in  sunlight,  awave  with  bay  and  red  cedar,  fluttering 
in  the  steady  breeze  of  June  with  daisy  and  wildrose,  white 
blackberry  flowers  and  yellow  buttercups. 

Below,  along  the  winding  road  beyond  the  station,  a 
runabout  with  two  girlish  figures  drove  rapidly  upwards. 
His  fancy  caught  and  clung  to  one  of  them  —  a  lilt  of  the 
figure,  a  gesture  with  the  reins  —  was  it  Katherine  ?  His 
heart  beat  surprisingly.  If  it  were  not  she,  he  must  search 
her  out,  he  must  see  her  quickly,  as  soon  as  these  fripperies 
were  over.     The  time  had  come. 

It  was  early.  A  cup  of  the  pastures,  enamelled  with 
late  Quaker  ladies,  tempted  him  to  try  the  sun-warmed 
earth.  He  stretched  in  the  rich  grass ;  buried  his  face  in 
its  cool  jungle ;  saw  the  myriad  little  things  that  scrambled 
and  crawled  in  the  flickering  gloom,  atingle,  like  him,  with 
the  life  of  summer  and  the  sun ;  then  rolled  on  his  back  to 
watch  the  cloud  puffs  floating  by,  high,  indifferent,  remote. 
A  high  and  steady  breeze,  a  tide  of  sweet  air  moving  across 
the  hilltops,  streamed  through  the  cedars,  rippled  over  the 
sumach  and  the  bay,  and  played  upon  his  forehead.  It 
blew  the  languor  from  him.  His  muscles  twitched,  his 
mind  awoke  and  sent  thoughts  tumultuously  racing  away 
with  the  wind.  Springing  to  his  feet,  he  tramped  back- 
ward and  forward  on  a  little  shelf  of  grass.  This  north- 
ern air,  this  crisp  soil,  these  sturdy  plants  that  fought  for 
life  and  won  among  the  ledges,  heartened  him.  They 
tonicked  the  will. 

Cloud  shadows  were  moving  along  the  opposite  hills. 
Behind  their  obscurity  he  fancied  he  could  see  the  dim 
perspectives  of  the  world  he  had  been  living  in,  a  hurrying, 
scurrying  throng,  vague  to  his  eyes,  vague  to  themselves. 


SUMACH,  CEDAR,  AND  BAY     277 

Line  melted  into  line,  act  blurred  into  motion  merely. 
Thus  hurried  and  scurried  the  big,  healthy  American 
world,  the  throng,  unseeing  beyond  the  activity  of  the 
moment,  as  yet  unseen  by  the  eye  of  contemplation,  as  yet 
unreflected  interpretatively  by  art.  Or  at  least  —  for  he 
did  not  deny  homage  to  the  great  men  among  the  elders  — 
his  crowd  was  unreflected ;  nowhere  in  contemporary  writ- 
ing could  he  find  the  outwardly  mediocre  Millingtowns, 
with  their  seething  inner  conflict  of  old  and  new ;  nowhere 
did  he  find  the  average,  ordinary,  healthy,  unromantic 
American  of  Millingtown,  who  for  all  his  seeming  com- 
monplaceness,  embodied  the  traditions,  the  habits,  the 
faults  and  the  virtues  of  a  race  that  was  making  history, 
and  would  make  greater  history  in  the  future.  No  one 
was  writing  of  him.  The  great  men  preferred  interna- 
tional types,  or  caricature;  or,  if  they  stuck  to  homely 
America,  it  was  the  exceptional  man  —  the  soldier  of  for- 
tune, the  captain  of  industry,  the  romantic  survivor  from 
old  Virginia,  the  rugged  original  of  the  New  England  hills, 
or  the  local-color  hero  of  California  or  Louisiana,  that  they 
chose.  The  average  American  had  little  place  in  his  own 
art. 

And  see  the  result.  Quacks  like  Crowfoot  were  selling 
him  cheap  photographs  of  his  activities,  or  glaring  litho- 
graphs of  his  sentimental  dreams.  Fanatics,  self-seeking 
or  self-deluded,  like  the  none  too  reverend  Sellbridge,  were 
playing  upon  his  noblest  impulses,  sucking  out  his  ideal- 
ism to  make  a  liquor  that  would  first  intoxicate,  and  then 
disgust.  Yet  the  determined  optimism,  so  he  thought, 
of  this  stocky  bourgeoisie,  was  thrilling  with  vigor;  if  you 
could  only  break  the  crust  of  convention,  their  good- 
humored  commonplaces  would  prove  to  be  an  essential  part 
of  reality  itself.  You  might  hate  their  crudity,  and  dread 
their  prosaicness,  and  fight  their  materialism;  neverthe- 


278  OUR  HOUSE 

less,  every  part  of  this  swarm  was  alive,  crawling  or  flying 
toward  something  new.  It  was  such  life  and  growth  and 
change  as  the  French  and  English  authors  sought  regret- 
fully in  earlier  centuries.  No  need  to  choose  carefully 
among  the  tissues  of  this  vigorous  civilization,  like  the 
parasite  that  feeds  with  discrimination  upon  his  cater- 
pillar, lest  the  vitals  be  touched,  and  the  flesh  turn  dust 
beneath  him.  Every  muscle  and  nerve  was  alive  and  vivid 
in  America.  Pitch  in  where  one  pleased,  there  was  un- 
studied activity,  uncharted,  unexplained  growth.  If  only 
one  could  understand;  if  only  one  could  tell  what  he 
understood ! 

"  It's  damned  hard  to  write  true,"  said  Robert  Roberts 
tensely;  but  his  voice  was  nearer  a  cheer  than  a  lament. 
For  he  was  aquiver  with  the  tonic  of  a  New  England  hill- 
side ;  he  felt  the  power  to  interpret  and  the  love  of  his  race 
within  him ;  and  he  saw  the  chance  and  the  need. 

"And  no  patent  medicine  in  mine,"  he  cried.  "No, 
nor  Big  Business  either."  What  matter  how  little  he 
knew,  how  limited  his  potentiality,  how  short  his  time! 
Even  he,  naive,  unformed,  a  man  scarcely,  knew*  more  than 
he  could  ever  drag  forth,  clarify,  understand  by  yearning 
over,  and  one  day  write  as  easily,  as  happily,  as  his  maga- 
zine trash.  Tossing  his  hat  into  the  air,  he  rolled  in  the 
warm  grass,  coming  to  rest  with  his  head  in  both  arms. 
He  would  be  a  free  soul  again.  The  job,  Bill's  job,  the 
chance  to  range  himself  on  definite  routine,  with  an  in- 
come steadily  rising,  and  a  mind  pinned  down  for  life,  no 
longer  attracted  —  how  had  he  dreamed  of  accepting  it ! 
His  thoughts  floated  out  true  and  clear.  The  wind,  the 
brisk  June  wind,  blew  away  all  morbid  memories  of  sex  en- 
tanglements, blew  away  the  crassness  of  his  life  in  Mill- 
ingtown  —  he  could  feel  it  streaming  from  his  eager 
nerves, —  blew  away  irresolution,  blew  away  laziness,  left 


SUMACH,  CEDAR,  AND  BAY     279 

only  a  little  loneliness  in  his  heart.  Mary  —  if  he  could 
only  talk  to  Mary  now.  She  would  understand.  Rolling 
to  his  feet,  he  picked  up  his  hat,  and  looked  for  the  path 
he  had  left  below  him.  For  the  moment  he  had  forgotten 
that  on  the  hilltop  romance  was  awaiting  a  final  encounter. 

Indeed  so  sure  he  was  of  his  choice  as  he  stood  there, 
so  certain  of  what  he  would  do,  that  an  awakening  sense 
of  humor  began  slyly  to  taunt  him  with  boyish  over-ween- 
ing and  conceit.  "  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  he  answered  stoutly. 
"  I'm  not  a  genius ;  but  I  have  the  formula.  I  see  the 
work  to  be  done ;  and  I  can  write." 

He  was  not  a  genius.  Indeed,  beyond  an  intense  sensi- 
tiveness, and  an  eager  will,  Robert  Roberts  was  just  good, 
average  Millingtown,  a  strong  stock,  not  a  fine,  not  a  cre- 
ative one.  But  it  is  not  necessary  to  be  a  genius  in  order 
to  justify  oneself  in  literature.  The  desire  to  write  is 
common.  The  power  to  write  is  shared  by  thousands. 
When  a  mind  like  Robert's,  quick,  healthy,  touched  now 
and  then  by  the  fire  of  inspiration,  is  thrilled  by  the  love 
of  life,  is  impassioned  with  the  desire  to  interpret  and 
record  its  little  day,  the  distinction  between  genius  and 
struggling,  ardent  talent  blurs  into  relative  unimportance. 
Genius  transcends  all  expectations ;  talent  may  only  repay 
Mother  Earth  for  breeding  it ;  but  both  create.  Milton  is 
greater  than  Clough ;  the  rose  more  wonderful  than  the 
Quaker  Lady.  What  of  it!  God  rejoiced  in  both  — 
which  will  never  be  said  of  the  wayside  weed  thwarted  ere 
its  blooming ;  or  of  withered  men  whose  brains  have  dried 
upon  half-tasks,  half  completed. 

"  It  may  be  only  a  mustard  seed,"  murmured  Robert, 
u  but  at  least  I'll  bring  something  to  maturity,  and  sow  it. 
Glory  Hallelujah,  but  it's  good  to  be  alive !  " 

The  clear  sun  slanted  lower,  the  valley  dipped  into  cool 
shadow.     Up  the  rippling  pastures  came  a  roaring  charge 


280  OUR  HOUSE 

of  the  wind.  He  breasted  it;  then  dropping  from  the 
height,  crashed  through  snmach  and  cedar  and  bay,  and 
slid  in  a  cataract  of  shale  and  pebbles  to  the  path.  "  If 
you  could  only  push  through  life  that  way,"  he  mused 
soberly  as  he  turned  toward  the  house  on  the  hill  where 
lived  Ethel.  "  But  things  that  aren't  bushes  get  in  your 
way,  hard  things,  inside  and  out.  Devil  of  uncertainty, 
devil  of  the  commonplace,  devil  of  the  love  of  money,  devil 
of  pretty  faces,  I  exorcise  all  of  you !  " 

"  Which  am  I  ?  "  said  a  voice  beside  him. 

He  started,  unaware  that  his  thoughts  had  been  audible. 
A  girl  was  waiting  in  the  lee  of  a  cedar  by  the  pathway, 
watching  him  with  gray,  mocking  eyes.  She  was  in  ivory 
white,  with  gold  hair,  and  something  of  gold  on  her  bosom. 

"  Which  ami?" 

"The  last,"  breathed  Robert  Roberts.  "You  are  — 
No,  I  deny  it.     You  can't  be  Katherine  Gray !  " 


CHAPTER  V 

DOUBT 

FOR  a  moment  he  stood  gazing  at  Katherine  Gray 
while  a  conflict  of  emotions  kept  him  silent ;  and  mean- 
time the  shadows  of  waving  cedar  fronds  were  playing  on 
her  forehead  and  deepening  the  light  in  her  eyes.  The 
similitude  of  a  white  butterfly  over  the  sweet  fern  caught 
his  fancy.  She  had  always  seemed  to  him  ethereally  apart 
from  everyday  life.  Even  now  it  was  difficult  to  fix  this 
slender,  vivid  girl  as  Katherine,  with  whom  he  had  talked 
and  frolicked  through  so  many  cheerful  days.  She  had 
always  dazzled  him;  always  sent  his  imagination  whirling; 
always,  unlike  the  others,  bespelled  him  into  fantasy  or 
romance.  Then  he  saw  that  the  curl  of  her  lips  was 
friendly ;  and  that  there  was  friendliness  in  her  eyes  also. 
He  took  both  her  hands  and  laughed,  and  she  laughed  back 
again.  "  Kath,  Vd  rather  have  met  you  here  than  any  one 
else  in  the  world !  "  he  said,  and  meant  it  with  every  fiber 
of  his  being. 

"  Why  ?  "  Katherine  asked,  evidently  pleased  that  he 
was  moved  past  the  conventional  surprise  at  meeting  her 
on  this  distant  hilltop.  "  Tell  me  why,  right  away,  Robert 
Roberts."  The  warmth  of  this  encounter  was  dizzying  her 
also ;  and  she  was  not  too  regardful  of  what  she  said. 

"  Because  I've  been  wanting  you."  he  said  with  sudden 
conviction;  and  then,  to  cover  his  unexpected  intensity, 
"  Weren't  we  engaged,  that  last  time  we  were  together !  " 

The  memory  sobered  them  both.  "  Your  poor  father," 
she  whispered,  remembering  a  world  of  things  that  Robert 

281 


282  OUR  HOUSE 

had  not  forgotten.  "  What  fun  we  had,  Robbie,  when 
we-all  were  children.  Don't  you  wish  —  don't  you  long 
to  go  back  %  " 

How  natural  it  was  to  be  with  her ;  how  close  was  their 
old  and  long  familiarity,  in  spite  of  absence  and  change ! 
Even  now,  in  the  first  moment  of  greeting,  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  the  commonplaces  of  mere  explanations, 
questions,  and  replies.  "  Why  not  try  to  go  back,  Kath, 
for  an  hour  anyway,"  he  cried,  "  before  we  ask  why  we're 
here,  and  what  has  happened,  and  all  the  usual  things! 
Let's  be  on  the  Brandywine  again,  if  only  for  an  hour." 

They  sat  down,  and  she  touched  his  hair  gently  as  he 
plucked  Quaker  Ladies  for  her  lap ;  but  there  was  none  of 
the  old  coquetry  that  used  to  be  native  to  her  every  motion. 
"  No,  not  that  way,"  she  murmured,  deprecating  sentiment. 
"  It's  better  just  to  remember;  better  to  keep  the  Brandy- 
wine  just  romance." 

He  was  frankly  surprised.  Katherine  never  would  have 
said  that  in  the  old  days !  With  a  quick  turn  he  sat  up 
and  studied  her  face  intently.  It  was  as  clear  and  as  pure, 
with  the  pink  of  the  apple  blossom  in  it  as  fresh  as  before ; 
her  figure  as  airy;  but  her  eyes  had  known  trouble;  they 
said  more  as  she  met  his  look  flashingly;  she  was  subtler. 
"  Yes,"  she  whispered  to  his  glance,  "  I  know  I've  changed. 
Oh,  Robert  Roberts,"  she  murmured,  and  let  her  arms 
droop  and  wind  luxuriously  among  the  bay  branches,  "  if 
we  only  could  be  healthy,  sentimental  little  animals  again. 
You  make  me  want  to  cry." 

There  was  a  pause  in  their  talking.  The  giddiness  of 
this  unexpected  meeting  began  to  abate.  Breezy  hillside, 
business  left  behind  him,  merriment  ahead,  came  again 
into  his  consciousness.  Katherine  felt  the  hand  of  the 
present  also  for  she  looked  at  her  watch,  spoke  of  the  sup- 
per hour,  glanced  down  at  the  late  train  nosing  through 


DOUBT  283 

the  valley.  How  familiar  she  was  and  how  strange. 
Every  gesture  of  hers  he  remembered,  best  of  all  the 
touch  upon  her  hair;  but  this  Katherine  Gray  was  no 
longer  nineteen ;  there  was  a  poise,  a  certainty  about  her ; 
for  two  years,  he  realized,  she  had  been  moving,  and  laugh- 
ing, and  suffering  perhaps  in  a  world  strange  to  him. 
She  too  had  broken  away  from  Millingtown.  Suddenly  he 
grew  jealous.  "  Tell  me  everything  that's  happened  to 
you  in  these  two  years,  Kath,"  he  asked ;  "  and  then  I'll 
tell  you  about  myself.  We've  lived  different  lives,  I  guess ; 
and  yet  I  seem  to  know  you  better  than  before.  What  a 
fool  I  was  to  let  you  go  so  easily ;  —  or  was  it  wisdom  ?  " 

Her  gray  eyes  glanced  at  him  searchingly,  with  a  little, 
so  he  thought,  of  his  own  jealousy  in  their  depth;  then, 
"  Wisdom,"  she  said,  echoing  his  tone  and  settling  herself 
beside  him.  "  We  were  babies  —  and  are  now.  No,  you 
tell  first." 

He  began  cheerfully,  hurrying  over  the  outlines,  trying 
to  make  a  jest  of  his  exploits  in  New  York, —  faltered, 
went  back  and  put  color  into  his  picture ;  —  came  to 
Johnny's  tragedy,  hesitated  again,  tried  to  tell  her  all  that 
it  meant,  but  did  not  —  how  could  he  when  to  all  this  life 
she  had  been  a  stranger ;  —  began  to  speak  of  Mary  Sharpe 
and  then  came  to  a  halt,  ashamed,  biting  his  lips,  feeling 
a  traitor.  "  I  haven't  told  you  half,"  he  said  awkwardly, 
"  for  I  don't  want  to  bore  you.  No  —  that's  not  true. 
Kath  — "  he  forced  himself  to  candor  — "  it's  got  to  be  all 
the  truth,  or  nothing.  And  somehow  —  all  the  truth  — 
have  I  any  right  to  tell  it  ?  " 

Katherine  smiled  sadly.  u  I  said  we  were  babies  — 
babies  to  be  so  sure  then  that  we  were  in  love  —  babies  to 
think  that  we  know  each  other  now.  And  yet  you  asked 
me  for  everything,  Eobbie!  It's  the  best  test  I  know," 
she  said,  "  how  much  you  can  tell  to  another." 


284  OUE  HOUSE 

He  was  hurt.  "  It  doesn't  measure  the  feeling  of  in- 
timacy I  have  for  you,  Kath.  When  I  catch  up  with 
that  — " 

He  saw  that  she  was  pleased.  "  Oh,  let's  get  to  know 
each  other,  Robbie,  as  we  did,"  she  cried  with  quick  im- 
pulsiveness — "  no  —  far  better  —  for  it  was  just  lovely 
dreaming  of  knowing  in  the  old  days.  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  everything  when  you  asked  me ;  but  I  knew  I  couldn't ; 
and  that  hurt.     I've  been  lonely  since  my  troubles  came." 

"  Your  troubles  ?  " 

"  Didn't  you  know  ?  "  He  shook  his  head,  ashamed. 
For  two  years  she  had  been  a  warm,  romantic  memory; 
but  still  little  more  than  a  memory  and  perhaps  a  dim  hope 
for  the  future.  "  Mother  died  —  Oh,  two  years  ago 
nearly ;  most  of  our  money  was  lost ;  and  then  George  was 
taken  sick.  He's  in  —  Colorado."  She  looked  at  him 
pathetically. 

"  George ! "  He  remembered  her  eager,  handsome 
brother,  an  athlete,  wildfire  among  the  girls  in  that  South- 
ern county.     "  George  —  a  consumptive  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  But  he'll  recover  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

He  shuddered.  "And  you're  all  alone!  Where  have 
you  lived  ?  " 

"  In  New  York.     I'm  a  stenographer." 

"  You  —  Kath  —  a  stenographer !  "  His  heavens  were 
falling.  The  image  of  a  white  butterfly  resting  on  the  fern 
began  to  fade. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  asked  indignantly.  "  Did  you  think 
that  I  was  a  princess,  and  couldn't  work  for  my  living  ?  " 

"  Why  did  you  have  to  ?  "  he  urged,  not  reconciled. 

Katherine's  face  hardened.  "  I  had  to  keep  George  in 
Colorado.     If  he  had  known  that  there  wasn't  enough 


DOUBT  285 

money  left  for  both  of  us,  he  would  have  come  home  —  to 
die.  I  could  have  lived  again  with  Cousin  Sue  in  Milling- 
town,  or  married  " —  her  eyes  strayed  to  Robert's  — "  but 
I  liked  the  work  best.  I'm  telling  you  lots  more  than  you 
told  me."     She  smiled  bravely. 

But  he  was  too  deeply  touched  to  respond.  u  No  won- 
der you've  changed,  Kath,"  he  murmured  reverently. 
"  I've  done  nothing  as  real  as  that." 

"  Real !  "  she  cried  bitterly ;  "  Is  this  real  ?  "  and  with 
a  moss  bank  for  typewriter  she  acted  out  her  day  for  him. 
"  '  Jenkins  &  Jenkins,  Gentlemen :  In  reply  to  yours  of  — 
beg  to  say  —  very  truly.'  i  Biltmore  Manufacturing  Co., 
Gentlemen :  We  notice  with  regret  that  —  yours  cor- 
dially.' '  Take  this  again,  Miss  Gray  —  gotta  put  in  an- 
other sentence.'  '  Hey,  little  girl,'  (that's  our  traveling 
man)  '  will  y'  write  a  little  note  for  me  —  some  combs 
those,  ain't  they ! '  And  that's  real  life !  "  she  dropped  her 
face  on  the  moss  bank.  "  I'm  just  the  typewriter  prong 
with  the  K  on  it,  Robbie.  Tap  me  and  I  write  my  name. 
Up  and  down,  click,  click, — "  she  swayed  backward  and 
forward  — "  until  the  end  of  the  line.  And  then  '  ding ' 
goes  the  bell,  and  start  all  over  again." 

"  Get  away  from  it,"  he  cried  in  angry  defense  of  the 
glamour  in  which  his  thoughts  had  made  her  live. 
"  You've  no  more  business  in  an  office  than  a  flower.  You 
ought  to  be  in  the  sunlight,  you  ought  to  be  living  —  you 
ought  to  be  married." 

The  girl  whirled  her  skirts,  and  settled  upon  the  bank 
facing  him.  "  Ask  me  ?  "  she  said  mischievously.  "  Do 
you  dare  ? " 

"  Will  you  marry  me,  Kath  ?  "  he  asked  solemnly,  and 
bent  his  face  as  near  as  he  could  to  hers. 

"  Yes,"  she  cried,  boxing  his  ears,  "  if  you  can  make 
me  believe  you  are  in  love  with  me.     Now  stop  flirting 


286  OUR  HOUSE 

and  tell  me  your  story.  We've  only  a  little  holiday  to- 
gether, Robbie." 

"  Why  ?  "     He  was  intrigued  by  her  mystery. 

She  frowned.  "  Tell  me.  Don't  you  see  I'm  not  a 
child  any  longer." 

The  shadows  climbed  up  the  hill  and  bathed  them  in 
twilight.  The  sweet  fern,  the  wild  rose  expressed  their 
evening  fragrance.  Vesper  sparrows  here  and  there  in 
the  sumachs  breathed  sad,  ethereal  notes.  He  told  her 
freely,  much  as  I  have  told  his  story ;  not  the  whole  truth, 
which  was  hidden  from  him,  nor  yet  a  complete  confession, 
for  Mary  became  in  his  version  merely  a  best  friend, 
wronged  by  his  crudity.  But  when  he  came  to  his  fresh 
and  fire-blown  resolution  to  write  the  world  he  knew, 
truly,  soberly,  even  if  he  starved  at  it,  he  forgot  her  utterly, 
and  all  the  old  emotions  raised  newly  by  this  meeting,  for- 
got everything  but  his  ambition. 

Her  face  flushed.  He  saw  it  and  his  egoism  vanished 
like  mist.  "  Kath,  don't  misunderstand  me !  "  he  cried ; 
but  before  he  could  say  more  she  had  lifted  up  her  head 
and  was  smiling  at  him  tenderly. 

"  Oh,  I  hoped  you  would  find  some  big  thing  to  make 
yourself  do,  and  do  it,"  she  murmured.  "  For  you  can't 
be  happy  any  other  way,  Robbie.  I  could  have  held  you 
back,  couldn't  I,  couldn't  I  ?  " —  her  voice  was  imperious. 
"  Perhaps  I  could  hold  you  for  a  while,  now  " —  she  bent 
toward  him  till  the  gold  brooch  against  the  ivory  blurred 
in  the  eyes  he  did  not  raise.  "But  I  won't,"  and  she 
sprang  lightly  to  a  place  by  the  cedar.  "  I  like  better  to 
have  you  for  a  friend." 

He  began  to  speak,  but  Katherine  put  a  hand  on  his 
lips.     "  Don't,"  she  whispered. 

He  caught  the  hand  and  held  it;  found  it  warm  and 


DOUBT  287 

throbbing ;  caught  her  eyes  and  held  them  also.  "  We're 
more  than  just  friends,  Kath." 

She  sat  down  beside  him  with  the  puckered  frown  on 
her  forehead  he  had  known  so  well.  Her  hand  she  left  in 
his.     He  did  not  even  press  it. 

"  It  would  have  been  terrible  if  we  had  married,"  she 
said,  "  and  then  found  that  our  best  selves  were  rivals,  I 
jealous  of  your  work,  you  reproachful  because  of  the 
sacrifice  you  would  have  had  to  make.  We  were  too  fine, 
we  were  too  good  for  anything  like  that,  Robbie." 

He  guessed  the  implication  in  her  words,  but  evaded  it. 
"  Our  minds  were  different,  then,"  he  said.  "  I  think 
that  I  loved  you  with  all  the  rest  of  me.  Perhaps  if  I  had 
held  you  until  I  had  found  myself  intellectually  — " 

"  Could  the  rest  of  you  have  waited  ?  "  she  asked,  droop- 
ing toward  him. 

"  No,"  he  cried  impetuously. 

"  It  wouldn't,"  she  said  quietly,  "  and  perhaps  I 
wouldn't.  Poor  me!  Oh,  poor  me!  All  I  could  have 
done  was  to  hold  you  back.  Look  the  other  way,  Robbie. 
Don't  be  a  fool.  You  know  you  didn't  love  me,  with  your 
mind.     And  I  didn't  love  you  enough  to  play  at  loving." 

"  No,"  he  responded,  "  I'm  glad  I  didn't  play  at  loving. 
It  had  to  be  all  or  nothing  with  you.     And  yet  — " 

"  It's  better  to  be  friends,"  she  said  at  last.  "  Oh, 
Robbie,  help  me  to  turn  my  life  into  something !  If  only 
I  weren't  a  girl  —  and  useless !  " —  her  passion  broke  into 
words  that  only  half  expressed  her  thought.  "  '  Gentle- 
men: Yours  of  the  25  th.'  Oh,  I'm  worth  more  than 
that,  Robbie!     Help  me  to  find  myself." 

"  You're  worth  more,"  he  said,  his  voice  trembling,  "  in 
friendship,  or  in  love,  than  I  can  ever  be." 

"  Oh,  not  that  way,  not  that  way,"  she  whispered,  laugh- 


288  OUR  HOUSE 

ing  and  sobbing  in  a  breath.     "  Loving  was  too  easy." 

Faint,  far-off,  a  voice  like  a  tiny  bell  of  silver  called, 
"  Katherine,  Kath-er-ine  Gray."  They  started  into  con- 
sciousness of  the  twilit  present. 

"  Good  gracious,"  she  cried,  "  we're  late.  They  told  me 
at  the  house  that  you  were  coming,  Eobbie ;  I  came  to  meet 
you.  We're  to  be  together  at  the  wedding.  Are  you 
glad?" 

"  Glad,"  he  said,  still  holding  her  eyes. 

"  But  not  too  glad,"  she  warned  him,  and  turning  ran 
along  the  path. 

"  Wait,"  he  cried.  But  she  ran  the  faster  for  his  call- 
ing, through  the  purple  twilight  of  the  sumachs. 

A  chill  came  with  the  evening.  He  felt  lonely  and  cold 
and  melancholy.  And  then  he  was  aware  of  her,  pausing, 
smiling  back,  at  a  bend  of  the  path.  Perhaps  she  had 
loved  him ;  perhaps  she  still  would  love  him  in  spite  of  all 
that  had  been  said.  Why  could  he  not  grasp  the  simple 
happiness  of  loving  her?  What  was  this  irony  which 
made  him  a  sentimentalist  with  Mary  and  with  Kath  a 
cynic,  doubtful  of  the  romance  that  tugged  at  his  soul  as 
he  watched  her  dim  fleeing  figure  in  the  twilight.  Oh, 
God,  the  beauty  of  ideas,  the  uncompromising  ruthlessness 
of  life!  If  time  would  stand  still!  If  he  could  keep 
with  her  on  this  hilltop !  If  what  he  could  give  her  was 
only  worth  giving;  if  what  she  would  give  him  were  all 
that  he  would  ask !  "  It's  safer  just  to  be  friends,"  he 
thought,  "  safer  for  both  of  us  " ;  and  then  as  the  path  he 
followed  swung  round  to  the  rosy  west  with  one  star  in  its 
depths,  and  beauty  suffused  him,  and  his  youth  thrilled  in 
his  heart,  "  if  we  can  stop  there ;  if  we  must." 

And  soon  he  was  in  the  midst  of  them,  shaking  hands, 
kissing  the  bride,  with  a  turmoil  of  envy  and  loneliness 
beneath  his  merry  words. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DAWN 

IT  seemed  best,  as  they  flocked  down  the  stairway  for  late 
dinner,  to  suppress  this  new  and  troubling  attraction. 
It  seemed  best  to  defer  the  greater  intimacy  he  must  have 
with  Katherine  until  he  was  master  of  his  vagrant  emo- 
tions, until  he  had  seen  her  again  and  again,  and  knew 
her  once  more.  The  atmosphere  of  a  wedding  was  too 
sentimental  to  be  clear.  But  he  was  unstrung  from  his 
high  resolves,  and  piqued  at  his  weakness. 

Katherine  was  the  more  sensible  of  the  two.  At  dinner 
she  never  met  his  questioning  eyes ;  afterwards,  when  they 
danced,  she  flirted  brilliantly  with  Ethel's  dandified,  in- 
sufferable, undergraduate  brother  who  took  nothing  seri- 
ously but  his  socks;  and  when  Robert  maneuvered  them 
all  to  the  hilltop  for  a  sight  of  the  valley  in  moonlight,  she 
talked  to  Spike  about  the  constituents  of  his  villainous 
soap. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  wedding  rehearsal  he  would 
have  shaken  off  all  responsibility  and  gone  in  for  pure 
holiday.  But  when,  in  the  train  of  the  bride,  she  walked 
toward  him  up  the  broad,  candle-lit  hallway,  the  sight  of 
her  grave  eyes  and  poignant  face  aroused  a  whirl  of  emo- 
tions. For  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  tell  whether  it 
was  Katherine  Gray  that  moved  him,  or  just  the  nameless, 
unfilled  desire  of  his  youth  for  an  escape  from  his 
lonely  self  in  Millingtown  to  dream  companionship  and 
love.     But  she  had  meant  all  that  to  him,  before  the  days 


290  OUR  HOUSE 

of  Mary ;  no,  even  later,  for  Mary  was  a  stimulant,  never 
romance.  Was  it  a  dream  longing,  best  left  in  the  mind, 
where  there  would  never  be  disillusion?  No  girl,  he 
thought  as  he  watched  her,  would  ever  be  more  lovely  in 
his  eyes. 

Bill  and  Spike  were  half  undressed  when  he  reached  the 
attic  dormitory  that  was  always  turned  over  to  the  men 
guests  of  the  household.  Dug  was  struggling  upward  with 
beer  and  pretzels.  They  ate  and  drank  and  smoked ;  talk 
began  to  flow ;  the  constraint  of  absence  and  new  interests 
wore  away.  When  Dug,  hanging  his  long  legs  over  a  cot 
and  chair-back,  was  smitten  by  Spike  amidships,  just  as 
always,  warmth  of  familiarity  and  old  affection  rushed 
back. 

"  Remember  that  night  in  your  room,  Rob,"  asked  Spike 
a  little  sentimentally,  "  when  we  had  a  guessing  party  as 
to  what  we  were  going  to  do  ?  Poor  old  Johnny  started  it. 
What  kids  we  were  then !  I  thought  I  knew  more  about 
soap  than  I've  been  able  to  learn  in  two  years." 

il  And  I  thought  I  was  going  to  marry  a  different  girl," 
said  Dug. 

"  And  Bill  thought  he  had  ten  years  of  clerking  ahead 
of  him;  and  now  he's  a  near-captain  of  industry,"  added 
Robert  warmly.  "  Seriously,  what  have  we  done,  boys  ? 
Where  do  we  stand?  Let's  have  a  'fessing  up  party. 
Spike,  you  begin."  He  had  no  reason  for  starting  such 
a  discussion,  unless  it  was  that  his  mind  was  keyed  to 
intensities. 

Spike  was  quite  ready.  His  figure  was  even  in  two 
years  beginning  to  settle  a  little  toward  the  stomach.  His 
face  had  grown  heavier,  yet  more  shrewd.  "  Well,  I 
can't  boast  of  much,"  he  said.  "  I've  done  up  three  de- 
partments of  the  works  pretty  brown,  and  had  my  salary 
raised  twice.     I've  learned  that  if  you  want  to  know  soap, 


DAWN  291 

you've  got  to  get  right  into  soap  and  forget  everything 
else.  I'm  a  darn  long  way  from  understanding  it ;  but  I 
can  tell  when  the  other  fellow  doesn't  know  as  much  as  I 
do," —  he  smiled  with  inward  satisfaction. 

"  And  what  else  —  what  else  have  you  done  —  how  have 
you  —  lived  ? "  Only  Bill  noticed  the  intonation. 
Eobert  himself  was  startled  at  the  way  he  had  spoken  the 
words.  It  was  the  light  irony,  almost  the  accent,  of 
Johnny  Bolt. 

"  Oh,  I  live  all  right,"  Spike  answered,  losing  interest ; 
"  at  the  Yale  Club  mostly.  There's  a  good  crowd  there  — 
but  getting  young." 

Robert  turned  from  him.  u  How  about  you,  Dug  ? 
But  what's  the  use  of  asking.  There's  only  one  fact  in 
your  career." 

"  You'll  find  differently,  my  son,"  said  Dug  importantly 
from  the  depths  of  the  cot,  "  when  you  get  there.  Wait 
till  you  have  to  support  a  wife." 

"And  family?" 

"  It  may  come  to  that." 

w  Well,  how  are  you  going  to  support  them  ?  " 

But  Dug  only  mumbled  about  a  little  income  of  his  own, 
and  the  cursed  slowness  of  the  insurance  business. 

"  These  fellows  haven't  touched  life,"  Robert  thought. 
"  They  aren't  interested  except  in  existing, —  it's  just  a 
straightaway  down  the  middle  of  a  dull  macadam  road  for 
them."  And  again  he  felt  Johnny's  brooding,  ironic 
spirit.  To  what  end  ?  Where  are  they  going  I  Content, 
yes,  but  not  alive. 

Bill  was  alive  at  any  rate.  "  Are  you  satisfied,  Bill, 
with  your  two  years  ?  "  Robert  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Bill  simply.  "  I  haven't  done  much ;  but 
I've  begun ;  and  I  see  what  I  want  to  do." 

It  was  a  good  deal  for  Bill  to  say.     Robert  knew  that 


292  OUR  HOUSE 

it  was  no  use  to  press  him  further.  And  besides  it  was 
simple  for  his  kind.  Johnny  had  said  so.  It  was  true. 
And  then  that  brooding,  mocking  spirit  came  closer  and 
clothed  itself  in  the  words  of  Dug,  not  his  words  surely, 
nor  his  mood. 

"  Are  you  satisfied,  Rob,  with  your  literary  experi- 
ment ?  Do  you  get  all  you  want  from  life  just  by  study- 
ing it  I " 

Robert  replied,  not  to  Dug,  but  to  the  memory  behind 
the  words.  He  answered  with  that  half  of  his  mind  that 
Johnny  always  put  upon  the  defensive. 

"  I've  learned  what  I  want  to  do  in  literature,"  he  said. 
"  As  for  life,  how  do  you  know  what  you  want  most  ? 
I'm  trying  to  discover." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  have  to  kick  about,"  Spike  of- 
fered handsomely,  as  one  successful  man  to  another. 
"  Bill  says  they've  offered  you  two  thousand  a  year  steady, 
and  then  some  to  follow.  You  can  start  a  family  on  that ; 
it's  not  like  literature,  it'll  stay  by  you." 

And  behind  his  tones  Robert  could  hear  Johnny's  mock- 
ery :  "  Two  thousand  a  year  and  steady.  That's  where 
romantic  longings  lead  the  men  who  strike  out  for  inde- 
pendence and  literature." 

They  talked  till  the  June  dawn,  the  easy  cant  of  the 
outside  world  sloughing  off  as  they  plunged  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  old  intimacy,  surprised  each  of  them  to  find 
that  the  boy-self  that  emerged  was  the  more  real.  Then, 
as  the  elm  leaves  against  their  window  turned  to  gray, 
they  blew  out  lights  and  slid  into  bed,  still  conversing. 
Only  Robert  lingered,  smoking  a  farewell  cigarette. 
When  the  talk  ceased  upon  a  snore  from  Spike,  and  deep 
breathing  in  front  and  behind  succeeded,  he  stole  softly 
down  the  dark  stairs  and  out  through  the  unchained  doors 


DAWN  293 

into  the  gray  and  misty  morning.  The  fresh  privacy  of 
the  dawn  drew  him. 

Mist  in  the  valley,  mist  in  the  orchard  filmy  among  the 
boughs,  gray  darkness  in  the  shrubbery,  and  silent  all,  save 
for  the  robins  that  began  as  his  foot  touched  the  turf. 
Silence  —  the  vast  silence  of  the  country  hilltops,  that 
sweeps  below  and  beyond  all  bird  sounds,  all  beast  utter- 
ances, and  murmur ings  of  the  farms.  Only  the  robins 
hailed  the  fresh  peace,  and  a  single  songsparrow,  bravely, 
cheerily,  carolling  the  dawn. 

Had  his  troubled  thoughts  sought  hers ;  or  did  the  morn- 
ing call  to  her  restless  spirit  also !  A  door  creaked  some- 
where behind  the  house.  He  heard  a  flurry  of  garments. 
There,  on  the  path  through  the  garden,  Katherine  was 
walking,  hurriedly  as  if  some  one  might  see.  The  sun 
burst  through  the  mist  as  she  went. 

Half  hidden  behind  the  box  bush  of  the  entrance  way, 
he  watched  her  as  she  moved  furtively  through  the  or- 
chard, a  liberty  scarf  trailing  behind.  Her  foot  caught 
in  a  grass  tangle;  she  recovered  with  a  determined  jerk 
that  was  unfamiliar.  "  What  draws  me  to  her  ? "  he 
thought  defiantly.  "  She  is  almost  a  stranger.  What 
would  become  of  you,  you,  your  very  intimate  self,  if  you 
should  let  yourself  go,  and  love  her  —  even  her.  It  would 
fade." 

Katherine  had  seen  him,  or  some  instinct  had  told  her 
of  his  presence,  for  she  did  not  move  upon  her  seat  be- 
neath the  lilacs  when  he  reached  her,  scarcely  lifted  in- 
scrutable eyes.  He  knew  the  puckered  frown  on  her  face, 
though  not  its  meaning.  Then  she  looked  up,  with  de- 
fiance for  his  defiance,  on  her  lips.  "  Why  do  you  follow 
me,  Robert  Roberts  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  knew,  Kath,"  he  answered,  surprised  into 


294  OUR  HOUSE 

partial  frankness.  And  then,  since  she  was  silent,  "  I'm 
restless  without  you." 

"I  know,"  she  said  gravely.  "  We  draw  each  other; 
we've  been  fond  of  each  other  so  long."  Suddenly  she  un- 
veiled her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  pleading,  "  Oh,  hold 
back,  hold  back,  Robbie !  " 

He  was  not  sure  he  understood.  "  Are  you  afraid  of 
me,  Kath?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  but  more  of  myself.  I'm  not 
the  Kath  you  used  to  know.  I'm  not  a  flower.  I'm  not 
really  romantic.     And  yet  — " 

He  lifted  her  unfinished  phrase :  "  And  yet  —  now 
we've  met  again,  here,  in  the  dawn  — " 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  to  go  on  in  that,  Robbie,"  she 
cried  pitifully ;  "  and  yet,  I  don't  want  to  let  you  go. 
It's  like  growing  old." 

"  It's  like  losing  part  of  yourself,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  the 
part  that  loved  you." 

"  Why  must  we  do  it?  "  she  cried,  stamping;  "  I  know 
we  must,  but  why?     Come  closer,  Robbie." 

She  drew  him  beside  her  on  the  bench,  put  one  arm 
about  him  and  searched  his  eyes.     "  Tell  me." 

"  It's  because  we've  grown  up,"  he  said  gently. 
"  Those  things  that  drew  us  —  they  were  too  beautiful  to 
be  real;  they  weren't  you,  Kath.  You  are  too  real  for 
romance  —  and  that's  what  I  want  from  you." 

She  nodded  gravely,  "  That's  it.  But  I'd  like  to  make 
sure.  Kiss  me,  Robbie.  No,  not  a  peck,  dear.  Look  at 
me.  Am  I  lovely  ?  Is  it  dawn  ?  "  She  lifted  and  clung 
to  him,  gave  herself  over.  Somehow  afterwards  both  un- 
derstood. 

"  It  would  be  like  that  in  life,"  she  said,  "  you'd  kiss 
me,  and  then  want  to  talk  literature.  I'd  rather  stay 
your  romance.     She  can't  give  that  to  you.     But  perhaps 


DAWN  295 

she  can  love  you  better.  I  don't  love  you,  Robbie,  except 
in  dreams  and  at  dawn  or  twilight.  I  couldn't  love  you 
while  I  was  typing !  " 

"She?"  he  asked  startled. 

"  Of  course,  silly,  I  wouldn't  let  you  go  if  there  weren't 
some  one  to  love  you.  I'd  have  married  you,  Eobert 
Roberts  —  just  out  of  pity !  But  being  a  romantic  mem- 
ory, and  friends  forever,  that's  better." 

"She!"  he  repeated. 

Katherine  laughed  at  his  flushed  face.  "  Do  you  think 
you  would  have  held  back  from  me,  when  I  kissed  you,  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  that  other  girl  —  that  Mary !  You 
wouldn't  have  stopped  because  for  you  I  was  —  just  ro- 
mance." And  when  he  protested,  "  I  am,  I  am,  and  so 
are  you  for  me.  Don't  spoil  it,  Robbie.  We're  freed 
from  —  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Illusion,  I  suppose,"  he  said.  "  But  can't  we  kiss 
once  more,  just  once  more  while  it's  dawn  ? " 

For  answer  she  boxed  his  ears  and  ran  down  the  path 
from  the  orchard.  He  followed,  warm  and  happy,  he  did 
not  know  just  why;  perhaps  because  she  was  so  lovely, 
perhaps  because  romance  went  with  her  into  the  past,  and 
set  him  free. 

And  after  the  robins  and  the  songsparrow,  came  the 
lark,  the  wren,  and  the  swallow,  and  then  the  full  chorus 
of  twittering,  lowing  everywhere  stirring  day.  Inside  it 
was  still  night.     He  went  to  bed  and  slept  content. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    PENCIL    MAN 

ROMANCE  was  setting,  and  like  the  setting  sun  it 
threw  strange  colors  on  familiar  things.  As  Robert's 
present  cleared  and  hardened,  faint  opalescent  lights  be- 
gan to  play  about  his  past.  Finality  touched  the  days  on 
the  Brandywine,  the  life  in  "  our  house,"  and  enriched 
their  vividness.  They  meant  perplexity  and  sorrow  no 
longer,  but  only  cherished  memory.  Even  the  months  in 
New  York  were  separated  by  a  gulf  of  change  and  experi- 
ence from  the  future  pressing  upon  him,  and  shared  the 
glamour  of  old  things  long  since  over. 

He  left  the  wedding  party  at  the  Grand  Central  with 
a  grasp  of  the  hand  from  Katherine  that  touched  bottom 
in  his  heart,  and  a  look  between  them  that  meant  perfect 
understanding.  Then  in  the  early  twilight  of  June, 
drawn  by  a  melancholy  fascination,  he  walked  toward 
Washington  Square.  The  house  where  they  had  lived  was 
gone.  In  its  place  an  apartment  hotel  bellied  bay  win- 
dows for  ten  flights.  The  French  restaurant  had  be- 
come a  barber  shop.  The  fruit-stand  had  moved  indoors 
and  turned  market.  But  there  on  the  bench  where  he  had 
always  sat  was  the  pencil  man,  the  same  battered  derby, 
the  same  dark  glasses,  the  same  bunch  of  red  pencils  at  an 
entreating  angle,  as  when  Johnny  and  Robert  used  to 
stop  for  a  bantering  word  or  two.  In  the  dusk  he  seemed 
younger,  cleaner,  and  his  well  remembered  beard  of  un- 
tidy gray  was  dark.     Time  and  the  gloom  were  kind  to 

him. 

296 


THE  PENCIL  MAN  297 

Eobert  stopped  by  his  seat  with  a  friendly  word  for  old 
acquaintance'  sake.  "  How's  business  now  %  Do  you  re- 
member the  chap  across  the  street  who  used  up  pencils  as 
fast  as  you  could  sell  'em  ?  " 

The  pencil  man  put  one  swift  hand  to  his  glasses  as  if 
to  remove  them,  then  thought  better  of  it.  "  Business  is 
bad,"  he  mumbled  hoarsely.  "  I  remember  you  well." 
He  glanced  up  at  Eobert  sharply.  "  An'  that  other  young 
fellow,  that  give  me  a  dollar  once  for  the  story  of  my  life. 
Him  that  disappeared  %  " 

"  You  knew  about  that  i  " 

"  I  know  everything  that  happens  on  this  square. 
Didn't  I  see  you  writin'  every  day  at  the  window  that  used 
to  be  up  there  ?  An'  he  too ;  " —  he  paused  — "  till  that 
girl  came ;  an'  then  they  was  always  walkin'  backward  and 
forward  here  in  the  Square.  '  You  don't  love  me,'  he  says, 
one  day  behind  me.  '  You  love  him.  I  know  it.'  '  I  do,' 
says  she ;  '  like  a  mother.  But  men  don't  marry  their 
mothers.'  '  Marry  me,  then,'  says  he,  '  and  save  me.' 
'  You  know  I  can't,'  says  she.  '  It  wouldn't  be  honest.' 
'  Then  you're  not  his  mother,'  says  he,  '  and  some  day  he'll 
find  it  out  an'  marry  you.'  '  Never,'  says  she.  '  I  won't 
let  him.  He's  too  young.'  '  He'll  get  over  that,'  says  he, 
'  when  the  sap  runs  out  of  him,  as  some  day  it  will. 
And  love's  making  you  younger  — '  (what  was  her  name, 
Oh,  yes)  — '  Mary.  Indeed  you're  too  young  for  me  now. 
I  give  you  to  him.'  '  Ah,  give  him  tome!'  she  says,  be- 
ginning to  cry ;  an'  then  he  saw  me,  an'  slipped  me  a  dollar, 
an'  moved  her  away." 

"  Ah,  give  him  to  me !  "  Eobert  could  hear  Mary's  voice. 
There  was  something  about  the  words  that  forbade  him  to 
doubt  their  source.  "  You've  got  a  good  memory,"  he 
murmured  to  cover  his  emotion. 

"  It's  all  I  have  got,"  said  the  pencil  man.     "  That  and 


298  OUK  HOUSE 

thinking;  but  they  keep  me  on  the  windy  side  of  care. 
Did  she  marry  him,  that  girl  8  " 

"  No,"  answered  Robert  shortly,  still  musing.  "  She 
went  to  Italy." 

"  And  married  neither  of  'em !  Well,  there's  much  to 
be  said  for  selling  pencils.  I'm  happy  if  I'm  let  alone. 
Is  she  ?     Are  you  \  " 

Abruptly  he  shuffled  off  into  the  growing  darkness. 
As  he  passed  under  the  arc  light  on  the  corner,  Robert 
came  to  himself,  caught  a  familiar  intonation  still  hover- 
ing in  his  ear,  saw  in  the  shambling  figure  a  trait,  a  gesture 
—  cried  his  name,  started  after,  but  on  the  crowded  side 
street  lost  him  —  perhaps  forever. 

An  instant  later  his  sudden  belief  cooled  to  skepticism. 
And  yet  he  was  not  sure,  he  was  never  sure  it  was  not 
Johnny.  For  a  moment  he  meditated  a  search  with  the 
police,  then  put  it  aside.  As  well  search  for  a  nameless 
immigrant!  And  then,  profoundly  moved,  he  hurried 
back  to  the  bench  and  sank  down  upon  it  with  head  in 
hands  going  over  every  word  of  their  brief  dialogue.  He 
was,  he  said,  on  the  windy  side  of  care  (Shakespeare,  of 
course ! )  He  was  happy  —  if  let  alone.  And  indeed,  if  it 
was  Johnny,  at  least  he  was  safe  from  shame  and  failure. 
After  all  there  was  much  to  be  said  for  selling  pencils. 
And  with  a  sudden  flash  Eobert  remembered  that  Johnny 
once  had  envied  the  pencil  man,  who  watched  the  world, 
and  smiled. 

On  the  way  home  skepticism  seized  him  again;  the  in- 
credibleness  of  the  identification.  And  yet,  as  he  thought 
over  all  the  possible  explanations  of  Johnny's  disappear- 
ance, the  possible  things  that  his  ease-loving  spirit  could 
have  endured  once  it  had  given  up,  once  his  money  was 
gone  —  no  will  left,  no  ambition,  no  desires  except  for 
meditation  and  irony  —  it  seemed  just  not  impossible. 


THE  PENCIL  MAN  299 

And  even  the  thought  of  it  humbled  him,  made  him  feel 
the  brittleness  of  the  security  he  had  lived  in,  how  transi- 
tory was  affection  and  friendship,  and  most  of  all,  love 
ungrasped. 

"  Oh,  give  him  to  me !  "  it  was  that  he  remembered  best. 

Skepticism  grew.  He  came  to  believe  that  the  turn  he 
had  given  the  experience  was  due  to  an  overwrought 
fancy.  When  his  restless  uncertainty  drove  him  the  next 
week  back  to  New  York,  the  policeman  on  the  beat  told 
him  that  the  pencil  man  was  an  old  fellow  "  batty  in  his 
head  "  whom  he  had  seen  almost  daily  —  but  then  he  had 
been  on  duty  in  Washington  Square  for  only  six  months 
and  his  predecessor  had  gone  back  to  Ireland.  The  pencil 
man  was  not  to  be  found ;  the  strange  dialogue  re-echoed  in 
Kobert's  brain.     He  never  knew. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MILLINGTOWN    AT    LAST 

ROBERT  walked  through  a  summer  noon  up  the  nar- 
row streets  endlessly  lined  with  red-brick  houses,  of 
Millingtown.  "  Here  is  my  factory,"  he  thought,  "  for 
my  own  real  work.  Cousin  Jenny  was  right ;  I  can't  get 
away  from  Millingtown."  And  he  grimaced,  remember- 
ing how  recently  the  town  had  closed  round  his  mind,  had 
smothered  his  senses,  had  drifted  him  under  with  irresisti- 
ble mediocrity. 

When  he  mounted  to  his  room  his  own  old  boyish  things, 
his  desk  with  its  mocking  motto,  "  Ars  longa,  vita  brevis" 
his  books  unread,  his  note-sheet  piles  of  projects  yet  un- 
attempted,  spoke  to  him  poignantly.  He  felt  as  if  he  had 
been  away  for  a  month,  as  if  his  junket  with  romance  had 
left  him  far  in  arrears.  It  was  easy  enough  on  the  hilltop 
to  plan  years  of  struggle  in  order  to  learn  how  to  write  of 
his  own  people,  slowly,  honestly,  while  time  sped  on  and 
easy  accomplishment  was  neglected.  But  there,  at  that 
desk,  it  must  be  done.  Here  and  now  he  must  begin  to 
face  it.     He  sat  down  to  plan  anew. 

A  month  later  the  hot  July  sunlight  found  him  there, 
and  baked  his  brain,  and  glared  upon  piles  of  sheets  writ- 
ten, crossed  out,  rewritten,  torn  in  two,  half  blank,  or 
wholly  so.  In  imagination,  at  least,  he  had  been  there  ever 
since  his  home-coming.  At  early  dawns,  in  hot  lamp-lit 
midnights,  he  had  stayed  out  of  bed  to  work.  On  the 
tennis  court  his  mind  revolved  and  revolved  about  an  un- 
solved problem  until  he  missed  his  returns  and  grew  weary 

300 


MILLINGTOWN  AT  LAST  301 

in  mind  before  he  was  tired  in  body.  It  was  too  hard  for 
him.  The  vision  remained ;  but  he  was  too  much  part  of 
Millingtown  to  grasp  it,  unaided.  Slowly  the  tentacles 
of  home  were  closing  again  about  him,  gently  dragging 
toward  easiness  of  living,  toward  easiness  of  thinking, 
away  from  achievement.  He  responded  by  feverish  en- 
deavor that  led  to  discouragement.  It  was  not  a  month's 
task,  nor  a  year's.  It  asked  for  serenity.  It  asked  for 
detachment.     He  could  attain  neither. 

Each  morning  it  was  harder  to  lock  himself  away  from 
his  world  and  struggle  on  with  his  learning.  He  learned ; 
he  could  feel  his  touch  grow  surer;  he  could  do  a  page 
now  and  then  that  was  real.  But  they  were  the  strokes  of 
a  drowning  swimmer.  No  use  in  swimming  when  the 
heart  was  giving  out.  He  was  working  in  a  vacuum. 
After  a  while  he  would  rush  out  for  air  and  never  come 
back.     He  was  lonely. 

If  Mary  had  stayed !  Time  and  time  again,  and  each 
time  more  imperiously,  a  fierce  longing  for  her  seized  and 
shook  him,  a  loneliness  without  her  that  became  almost  too 
great  to  bear.  The  barriers  between  them  were  down  now. 
There  was  no  romantic,  unknown  future  to  puzzle  his  will ; 
the  path  was  clear  and  straight,  and  hard,  and  too  long  to 
walk  alone.  He  needed  her;  he  wanted  her  every  way; 
he  wanted  her  too  much  to  bother  about  love  and  physiology 
and  metaphysics.  "  Ah,  give  her  to  me !  "  he  groaned 
more  than  once  in  midnight  sessions,  remembering  the 
pencil  man  and  Washington  Square.  She  was  in  Italy; 
he  was  meshed  in  Millingtown,  poor  and  likely  to  be  poorer 
before  he  made  his  name.  Pride  kept  him  from  writing 
her  of  his  need  of  her ;  poverty  and  his  duty  as  he  saw  it, 
kept  him  in  Millingtown. 

This  day  as  every  day  he  looked  from  his  desk  across  the 
square  to  the  desolate  rear  of  her  house.     This  morning 


302  OUR  HOUSE 

the  summer  breeze  swung  an  open  shutter  idly  to  and  fro, 
glinting  in  the  sunlight.  His  eye  caught  it  and  roused 
his  mind.  Rushing  to  the  window  he  strained  his  sight 
through  the  screen  of  leaves  —  a  glimmer  of  curtain,  a 
noise  as  of  a  rattled  pane  —  her  house  was  open!  He 
leaned  far  out  in  the  sunlight,  mad  with  uncertainty ;  then 
below  him,  heard  her  voice,  Mary's  —  home  again !  They 
were  walking,  his  mother  and  she,  in  the  rose  garden. 
She  was  in  gray  with  a  rose  in  her  hair.  He  could  hear 
her  tones,  gentle,  humorous,  pleading,  but  not  the  words. 
His  mother  kissed  her ! 

A  storm  of  emotions  beat  through  his  brain,  dizzied 
him,  confused  him  with  impulses.  God  —  to  run  to  the 
garden  and  ask  her  again  to  marry  him;  to  get  her  this 
time,  because,  if  she  forgave  him,  there  was  no  reason  now 
to  refuse !  His  mind  raced.  Marry  her,  on  what !  Five 
hundred  a  year,  and  a  home  with  Cousin  Jenny!  He 
knew  the  cost  of  money  now!  Well  then,  throw  it  all 
over,  his  life  plan;  take  Bill's  two  thousand  a  year.  No, 
damn  it!  that  would  be  to  toss  up  the  sponge;  he  would 
lose  her  certainly.  Impossible  to  marry  without  money; 
impossible  to  do  his  chosen  work  and  make  money  now! 
And  he  could  not  work  without  her!  The  chain  of  cir- 
cumstance prepared  by  the  hard  conditions  of  life  in  Amer- 
ica for  men  with  aspirations  like  his,  tightened  another 
link.  Could  he  ask  her  to  wait  for  him.  Wait!  How 
long?  He  had  no  illusions  as  to  speedy  riches,  or  even 
speedy  success,  in  the  job  he  had  chosen.  Well  then,  he 
was  master  of  his  passions;  her  will  had  proved  itself. 
After  all,  for  a  while,  they  might  again  be  just  friends. 
Anything  rather  than  lose  her. 

His  mother's  voice  called  as  he  descended.  She  was  at 
the  garden  door,  a  little  flushed,  it  seemed,  and  excited. 
"  Mary  is  back,"  she  said,  "  and  changed  somehow.     She 


MILLINGTOWN  AT  LAST  303 

was  sweet  to  me.  She  wants  thee  not  to  go  into  adver- 
tising.    Go  talk  to  her." 

He  found  her  in  the  arbor,  with  the  flush  of  the  sea  on 
her  face,  and  Venetian  lace  at  her  throat;  but  troubled 
and  hesitant.  And  Eobert,  when  he  saw  her,  forgot  his 
longing  in  remorse  for  that  last  crude  day  of  their  in- 
timacy, remorse  for  the  way  in  which  he  had  answered 
courageous  love  with  crass  desire.  At  first  he  did  not  even 
take  her  hand. 

She  seemed  to  understand  for  a  light  broke  in  her  eyes. 
"  Oh,  Robbie,"  she  murmured  gladly.  "  I  never  held  it 
against  you.     It  was  a  flare-up." 

"  Why  are  you  back  ?  "  he  asked  tensely. 

She  hung  for  an  instant  in  confusion,  twisting  the  grape 
leaves ;  then  decided  on  partial  candor.  "  They  wrote  me 
you  were  giving  it  all  up  —  your  plans  —  your  hopes  — 
and  going  into  business.  I  wanted  to  know  why."  She 
paused,  but  his  looks  asked  for  more.  "  I  felt  —  I  felt 
that  perhaps  if  I  had  stayed  it  might  not  have  happened. 
That  you  might  have  forgotten  our  —  our  foolishness  — 
and  been  my  friend  again  —  and  —  and  let  me  help  you. 
I  wanted  to  be  sure  it  was  your  own  will  —  your  wish." 

"  Our  foolishness !  "  he  said  sorrowfully.  "  Was  that 
all  it  meant  to  you  ?  " 

"  Not  to  me,  not  to  me,  then,"  she  cried,  on  the  de- 
fensive, "  but  to  you.  I  thought  you  would  have  —  re- 
covered —  and  I,  I  have  worked  for  eight  months  in  Italy. 
It  has  made  me  happier  and  stronger.  I  —  I  am  all  right 
now.  And  we  " —  her  wandering  eyes  caught  his  and 
saw  something  there  that  disturbed  the  flow  of  her  speech. 
"  And  we  —  we  can  be  friends." 

It  was  what  he  intended  to  propose ;  but  he  had  not  ex- 
pected her  to  do  the  offering.  The  impact  upset  his  nicely 
balanced  equilibrium  and  made  the  speech  he  had  ready 


304  OUR  HOUSE 

far  more  passionate  than  he  had  planned.  "  I  do  need 
you,  Mary.  I  can't  stick  out  the  work  alone.  I've  tried 
resolves;  I've  even  tried  falling  in  love.  I  can't  work 
without  you,  Mary.     I  need  you." 

She  stared  at  him  with  wide-opened  eyes  and  a  vision 
turned  inward,  like  a  sleeper  trying  to  awake.  "  You've 
been  unhappy  without  me  ?  You  haven't  gone  on  and  for- 
gotten ?     I  was  sure  you  would ;  you  must  have  done  so." 

"  I  couldn't,"  said  Robert,  and  said  all  with  that  word. 
Then  recovering  his  pose,  "  I  couldn't  forget  that  you  were 
the  best  friend  I  ever  had." 

But  her  face  had  grown  luminous.  "  You  went  to  that 
other  —  to  Katherine;  and  you  came  back  —  to  me!  It 
was  I  that  you  needed !  Don't  evade ;  don't  hide  anything 
from  me,  Robert  Roberts,"  she  cried,  clasping  anxious 
hands  on  her  breast.  "  It's  too  important  for  us.  If  it's 
true,  why  all  is  so  simple !  "  She  hesitated,  searching  his 
eyes ;  then  joyously :  "  Begin  again,  there,  where  you 
were,  when  you  spoke  that  night,  when  you  asked  —  under 
my  Carpaccio  — " 

"  Please  be  my  friend,  Mary,"  he  said  tensely. 

She  whirled  in  her  impatience,  touched  his  shoulder, 
then  kept  her  hands  from  him.  "  Will  no  one  tell  me 
what  is  wrong !  "  she  cried,  in  humorous  despair.  "  Oh, 
Robert,  say  it,  say  it ;  you  know  you  love  me !  Look  — " 
and  she  opened  her  heart  to  him.  "  Oh,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter!" 

"  I  can  only  ask  you  to  be  my  friend,  Mary,"  he  re- 
peated stockishly,  trailing  the  u  Mary  "  lest  he  should  let 
himself  go.  u  I  haven't  the  right  to  ask  more.  If  I  stick 
at  it,  I'll  be  poor.     If  I  don't,  I'm  not  worth  you." 

"  Poor !  —  Oh,  it's  pride,  it's  his  Quaker  pride !  "  she 
moaned.  "  We're  lost !  Will  no  one  bring  us  together. 
You  know  I  have  plenty  for  both.     What  good  is  my 


MILLINGTOWST  AT  LAST  305 

money  if  it  doesn't  help  me  now!  Cousin  Jenny  — 
Cousin  Jenny  — " 

Somewhere  a  faint  clip-clip  of  shears  had  backed  their 
conversation.  Mary  rushed  down  the  path  to  the  for- 
sythia  bushes  and  drew  forth  the  old  lady,  gently,  with  a 
loving  deference  Eobert  could  not  fail  to  note.  "  Cousin 
Jenny,"  she  cried,  in  a  voice  so  soft  in  appeal,  so  different 
from  the  old  Mary,  that  it  moved  him  profoundly,  "  Help 
us.  Cousin  Jenny.  Help  me.  He  loves  me.  You  can 
see  that  he  loves  me.  And  he  needs  me,  and  won't  marry 
me,  because  it's  I  that  have  the  money.  You  are  what  he 
most  believes  in.     Tell  him  what  to  do." 

Robert's  face  burned  with  the  agony  of  emotional  ex- 
posure, but  as  they  neared  him  he  stood  up  straight  to  the 
encounter.  Cousin  Jenny  would  understand.  She  would 
back  up  her  blood.     There  would  be  no  mercy  in  her. 

But  the  gray  old  lady,  with  her  trembling  hands  and  her 
eyes  that  could  remind  you  of  duty  and  courage,  was 
strangely  hesitant,  and  when  she  looked  and  spoke,  it  was 
to  Mary.  Something  was  being  concealed  from  him. 
They  had  talked  before ! 

"  I'm  sorry,  Mary  Sharpe,  I've  done  thee  wrong  in  the 
past,"  she  said  gently.  "  Thee's  a  good  girl,  if  thee  did 
come  from  New  England.  But  I  thought  it  was  his  work 
that  was  troubling  thee  ?  " 

"  It  was,  it  was,"  Mary  cried.  "  I  never  guessed  that 
he  loved  me !  " 

And  then  Cousin  Jenny  pierced  Robert  through  with  a 
long,  long  look.  He  stood  up  to  her.  He  let  her  see  all 
he  felt.  He  wanted  to  say,  "  Look  well,  Cousin  Jenny, 
I'm  not  playing  at  love  this  time.  I  mean  it ;  that's  why 
I  have  to  hold  back."  But  it  did  not  seem  necessary. 
He  knew  that  she  understood. 

"  Why  doesn't  thee  marry  her  ?  " 


306  OUR  HOUSE 

"  Money,"  lie  said  shortly. 

"  Why  doesn't  thee  work  for  it  ?  " 

"  I  can't  now  —  and  do  good  work." 

"  Is  that  true,  does  thee  think  ?  "  she  turned  resignedly 
to  Mary,  as  one  who  yields  at  last  to  the  younger  genera- 
tion. 

"  Yes,  it's  true,"  the  girl  answered  defiantly.  "  He  can 
earn  only  a  little  —  at  least  for  a  while." 

"  Suppose  I  should  give  him  enough  to  marry  on." 

"  Thee  can't  afford  it;  if  thee  could  I  don't  think  I'd  let 
thee."     Robert  settled  that. 

"  And  I  wouldn't  let  him  take  it,"  said  Mary. 

"  So  literature  costs  money  instead  of  making  it,"  the 
old  lady  snorted.  "  Then  thee'd  better  let  thy  wife  sup- 
port thee  —  at  least  for  a  while." 

"  I  can't  be  dependent  upon  her."     Robert  stuck  to  it. 

Cousin  Jenny  wagged  her  wise  old  head.  "  Obstinate 
children.  Obstinate  boy,"  she  said,  not  unkindly.  "  I 
lent  thy  father  the  money  to  begin  his  business,  and  he 
took  it  gladly  because  he  loved  me.  Is  thee  better  than 
thy  father?  Is  thee  prouder  than  he  was?  Is  thy 
precious  writing  a  thing  to  be  tenderer  of  than  the  business 
thy  family  have  been  honest  in  for  generations  ?  "  It 
was  her  last  dig.  "  Kiss  each  other,  obstinate  children. 
We  give  him  to  thee,  Mary,"  her  voice  broke  a  little,  u  if 
thee  wants  such  a  crack  brain.  It  isn't  thy  money  he 
needs ;  it's  thee.  But  keep  him  in  Millingtown.  Peter !  " 
she  cried.  "  Peter !  I  know  that  cat  is  in  mischief 
somewhere.     Peter,  is  thee  after  the  chickens  ?  " 

Mary's  eyes  were  dancing,  "  Quaker,"  she  murmured, 
"  Quaker,  when  your  own  blood  deserts  you  —  come  to 
me!" 

He  could  not  yield  instantly,  though  his  being  flooded 


MILLINGTOWIST  AT  LAST  307 

toward  her.  He  had  to  see  it  clear.  It  was  his  work, 
but  her  inspiration  —  did  it  make  any  difference  where 
the  money  came  from, —  for  a  while  ?  His  new-found 
reality  touched  the  problem  and  it  vanished.  The  last 
wisp  of  false  romance  thinned  into  nothingness.  His 
chance,  his  surging  happiness  choked  him;  and  then  he 
cleared  his  eyes  for  her  and  let  his  will  run  free. 

"  No,  no,  Sarah,"  they  heard  Aunt  Jenny  rumbling  on 
the  path  behind  the  forsythias,  "  she's  a  dear  girl,  and  he 
needs  her;  and  I  love  her  as  if  she  had  been  born  in 
Millingtown.  Don't  thee  go  there  yet.  I  told  them  to 
kiss  each  other  —  to  kiss,  I  tell  thee  — " 

And  so  they  laughed,  with  eyes  shining  through  the 
laughter ;  and  then  he  led  her  to  his  mother ;  and  after  that, 
well,  all  time  was  before  them. 

It  was  seven,  and  the  light  on  the  trees  was  aquamarine 
and  the  leaves  jade  gilded,  when  he  climbed  to  his  room 
and  looked  out  over  the  slate  roofs  and  brick  walls  of 
Millingtown.  Could  he  hold  her  there  content,  this  blade- 
like spirit?  Would  she  soften  to  his  homely  folk,  to 
"  our  house "  ?  Could  he  link  her  to  Millingtown  ? 
There  was  a  quality  of  sympathy,  outflowing  in  this  new 
Mary,  quivering  with  affection  and  love,  that  gave  him 
assurance. 

Could  she  really  set  him  free  from  the  bonds  of  slug- 
gish provincialism,  could  she  lift  him  beyond  Millingtown  I 
For  answer,  the  homely  houses  that  sheltered  his  own 
people  with  all  the  intensity  of  their  narrow,  hidden  re- 
ality, began  to  glow  with  a  new  interest.  She  did  not 
know  them  as  he  did,  even  though  she  had  been  close  to 
his  life  in  Millingtown.  She  would  be  sympathetic,  yet 
humorous,   and  if  needs  be  ironic,   and   certainly  free. 


308  OUR  HOUSE 

Millingtown  grew  amiable,  grew  amusing,  his  world  sharp- 
ened to  a  focus  as  he  denned  it  in  fancy  for  her  vivid 
intelligence. 

Could  he  live  up  to  her  hopes?  Just  doubts  assailed 
him.  He  remembered  how  upon  the  window-seat  under 
the  wistarias  in  the  last  week  of  college,  he  had  tossed  and 
turned  over  the  difficulty  of  seeing  ahead  on  the  road.  In 
spite  of  all  his  treading,  he  was  little  further  toward  the 
end  of  striving,  when  one  could  settle  down  to  live.  Better 
men  had  failed.  Johnny  Bolt  had  gone  under.  With  a 
sudden  clairvoyance,  he  saw  that  real  life  was  just  begin- 
ning— 

They  were  calling  him  from  below.  He  hurried  out 
and  down  to  the  landing.  The  two  were  standing  myste- 
riously in  the  dim  light  of  the  hallway,  smiling  up  at  him ; 
and  beside  them,  Mary. 

"  What  day  is  this  ?  "  they  asked  together. 

"  The  best  of  days/'  he  answered,  covering  his  mental 
struggle. 

"  Conceited  boy,"  she  cried,  "  it's  your  birthday.  I've 
come  back  for  supper." 

He  looked  beyond  her  to  his  mother,  but  quicker  than 
his  glance,  Mary  had  drawn  her  to  the  stairway  for  the 
first  embrace.  And  then,  as  the  light  fell  upon  his 
troubled  forehead,  she  drew  him  downward  and  faced  the 
two  gray  figures.  "  He's  been  in  his  room  worrying," 
she  said,  her  voice  charged  with  protection,  with  sympa- 
thy, and  defiant  of  the  future.  "  Tell  him  how  old  he  is, 
dear  Cousin  Jenny." 

Cousin  Jenny  nodded  her  wise  old  head.  "  Only 
twenty-three,  Robert  Roberts.  Thee's  only  twenty-three," 
she  said. 


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English  Composition  in  Theory  and  Practice 

By  HENRY  SEIDEL  CANBY  and  Others 

Cloth,  i2mo.  $1.40  net. 
A  thoroughly  practical  book  of  directions  for  good  writing, 
based  upon  sound  principles.  An  extensive  collection  of  examples 
drawn  from  all  the  forms  of  discourse  and  inclusive  of  brief  ex- 
cerpts and  complete  essays  is  also  included.  The  authors,  who 
are  professors  of  English  composition  in  the  Sheffield  Scientific 
School  of  Yale  University,  have  so  handled  their  subject  that  the 
work  is  not  limited  to  any  one  class  of  students,  but  is  of  a  general 
interest  to  all  concerned  in  the  writing  of  good  English. 

Elements  of  Composition 

By  HENRY  SEIDEL  CANBY  and  JOHN  BAKER  OPDYCKE 

///.  i2mo. 
The  Means  of  Composition,  The  Ends  of  Composition,  The 
Aids  to  Composition,  these,  the  subjects  of  the  three  parts  into 
which  Henry  Seidel  Canby  and  John  Baker  Opdycke  divide  the 
discussion  in  their  new  book,  Elements  of  Composition,  well 
indicates  its  character  and  content.  The  volume  is  one  which 
will  be  of  interest  and  assistance  to  all  those  who  are  working  in 
the  cause  of  simple,  expressive,  accurate  speech  and  writing  as 
well  as  those  who  are  striving  to  attain  these  things  for  themselves. 

Facts,  Thought  and  Imagination 

By  Professors  H.  S.  CANBY,  F.  E.  PIERCE,  W.  H.  DURHAM 
Of  Sheffield  Scientific  School,  Yale  University 

Cloth,  i2mo.  $1.30. 
Three  books  which  form  a  good  combination  for  Freshman 
English  Composition  courses.  "English  Composition"  has  for 
several  years  been  extensively  used  as  a  text  for  normal  Freshman 
students,  and  a  careful  revision  during  this  period  of  time  has 
made  it  more  than  ordinarily  satisfactory.  "Manual  of  Good 
English"  will  be  found  a  valuable  supplement  to  this  text,  for 
it  is  intended  primarily  as  a  review  of  authorized  practice  in 
English  Composition,  and  as  a  book  of  reference  particularly  for 
such  students  as  are  defective  in  the  essentials  of  good  English. 
"Facts,  Thought  and  Imagination"  is  designed  as  a  text  for 
advanced  Freshman  or  Sophomore  students.  It  does  not  place 
the  emphasis  on  rhetorical  drill,  but  on  the  thing  to  be  written 
and  how  to  write  it. 

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CHAS.  G.  D.  ROBERTS'  NEW  NOVEL 

Jim  I  The  Story  of  a  Backwoods  Police  Dog 

By  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 

Author  of  "  The  Secret  Trails,"  etc. 

With  illustrations.    Cloth,  i2mo 

Mr.  Roberts  tells  in  this  book  the  story  of  a  backwoods  police 
dog  and  his  many  thrilling  adventures.  Jim  will  undoubtedly  be 
welcomed  into  the  company  of  dog  heroes,  for  he  is  a  real  dog 
and  a  thoroughly  likable  one.  In  addition  to  the  story  of  Jim, 
which  comprises  the  bulk  of  the  book,  there  are  three  other  ani- 
mal stories,  all  in  Mr.  Roberts'  best  vein :  "  Stripes,  the  Uncon- 
cerned," "  The  Mule,"  and  "  The  Eagle." 


A  NEW  NOVEL  BY  RICHARD  A.  MAHER 

The  Hills  of  Desire 

By  RICHARD  AUMERLE  MAHER 
Author  of  "  The  Shepherd  of  the  North,"  etc. 

Cloth,  i2mo 

Wandering  in  distant  and  lonely  hills  behind  their  old  horse 
Donahue,  Jimmy  and  Augusta  go  in  search  of  health.  Jimmy 
is  weak-lunged  and  he  must  be  kept  out  in  the  open.  He  is  a 
delightful  person,  as  also  is  his  wife.  And  as  for  Donahue,  he 
is  perhaps  the  next  most  important  "  character "  in  the  book. 
The  people  that  Jimmy  and  Augusta  meet  on  their  travels  and 
the  experiences  that  they  have  are  charmingly  described.  While 
it  is  not  in  any  sense  a  war  novel,  the  war  comes  into  the  theme, 
as  it  must  in  the  case  of  every  book  dealing  with  the  last  few 
years,  and  Jimmy  and  Augusta  are  called  upon  to  do  their  part. 
The  book  is  happy  in  its  ending  and  holds  the  attention  through- 
out, as  is  quite  to  be  expected  of  any  novel  from  the  pen  of  the 
author  of  "The  Shepherd  of  the  North,"  and  "Gold  Must  Be 
Tried  by  Fire." 


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PROF.  CANBY'S  NEW  BOOK 

Education  by  Violence 

By  HENRY  S.  CANBY 

Cloth,  i2mo.    Preparing 

Professor  Canby  here  deals  with  the  effects  of  the  war  and 
the  rehabilitation  of  society  at  home  and  in  Europe.  Among 
the  specific  topics  taken  up  are  the  conditions  in  England  and 
France,  the  racial  and  spiritual  differences  and  agreements  be- 
tween the  Allies  and  the  prospects  of  a  peace  which  shall  finally 
end  war.  As  the  reflections  of  the  mind  of  an  American  scholar 
when  he  comes  into  contact  with  the  realities  of  the  war  and 
its  changes,  the  book  is  certain  to  have  a  wide  interest  in  this 


country. 


CONTENTS 


I    On  Writing  the  Truth 
"Transport  106" 

II    On  the  English 

Blood  and  Water 

III  On  Irish  Literature 

The  Irish  Mind 

IV  On  the  Sense  of  Race 

Innocents  Abroad 

V    On  Morale 

Spes  Unica 

VI    On  the  Uncommon  Man 
Tanks 

VII    On  the  Personal  in  Education 
Education  by  Violence 

VIII    On  the  Next  War 

When  Johnny  Comes  Marching  Home 

IX    On  Salvage  and  Waste 
War's  Ending 


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TWO  FORTHCOMING  NOVELS 


Mary  Olivier 


By  MAY  SINCLAIR 

Author  of  "  The  Tree  of  Heaven/   etc. 

Cloth,  i2tno. 

No  novel  of  the  war  period  made  a  more  profound  impression 
than  did  Miss  Sinclair's  "  The  Tree  of  Heaven."  The  announce- 
ment of  a  new  book  by  this  distinguished  author  is  therefore 
most  welcome.  Mary  Olivier  is  a  story  in  Miss  Sinclair's  best 
manner.  Once  again  she  has  chosen  a  theme  of  vital  interest 
and  has  treated  it  with  the  superb  literary  skill  which  has  put  her 
among  the  really  great  of  contemporary  novelists. 


From  Father  to  Son 


By  MARY  S.  WATTS 

Author  of   "Nathan   Burke,"   "The   Rise   of   Jennie   Cushing," 
"The  Boardman  Family,"  etc. 

Cloth,  i2tno. 

The  hero  of  Mrs.  Watts'  new  story  is  a  young  man  belonging 
to  a  very  wealthy  family,  who  has  had  every  sort  of  luxury  and 
advantage  and  who,  upon  entering  his  father's  office  after  leav- 
ing college,  finds  that  the  huge  fortune  founded  by  his  grand- 
father was  mainly  made  by  profiteering  on  the  grandfather's  part 
during  the  Civil  War.  The  question  is  what  is  this  young  man 
of  the  present  day  to  do?  He  is  high-minded  and  sensitive  and 
the  problem  is  a  difficult  one.  What  too,  is  his  own  father  to 
do  —  also  a  man  of  sterling  character,  though  of  a  sterner  type. 
The  theme  which  grows  out  of  this  situation  is  one  of  singular 
interest  and  power  and  involves  a  moving  crowd  of  characters. 

Among  these  is  the  hero's  sister  who  marries  a  German  attache 
at  the  embassy  in  Washington ;  and  another  sister  who  marries 
a  young  man  of  the  same  social  set  —  and  things  happen.  There 
is  a  drunken  scalawag  of  a  relative  —  who  might  be  worse,  and 
there  are  one  or  two  other  people  whom  readers  of  Mrs.  Watts' 
books  have  met  before.  The  dates  of  the  story  are  from  191 1 
to  the  present  year. 

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NEW  MACMILLAN  NOVELS 

The  Rising  of  the  Tide: 

The  Story  of  Sabinsport. 

By  IDA  M.  TARBELL 

Cloth,  i2mo 

A  great  many  people  will  be  interested  in  the  announcement 
that  Miss  Tarbell  has  written  a  story  of  the  war  —  perhaps  not 
so  much  of  the  war  as  of  the  American  spirit  which  contributed 
to  so  large  an  extent  to  early  victory.  The  scene  of  her  book 
is  a  mining  and  manufacturing  town,  which,  when  the  national 
emergency  arises,  becomes  a  munitions  making  center.  The  way 
in  which  America  awakes  to  the  fact  that  it  has  a  distinct  part 
to  play  in  repelling  lawlessness  and  world  aggression  is  vividly 
shown  by  means  of  a  story  in  which  dramatic  incidents  occur 
frequently.    There  is  also  an  interesting  love  theme. 

The  war  is  over  to  be  sure,  but  this  fact,  perhaps,  makes  Miss 
Tarbell's  narrative  of  the  days  when  this  country  was  being 
tested  of  even  greater  appeal. 

Mildred  Carver,  U  S.  A. 

By  MARTHA  BENSLEY  BRUERE 

Cloth,  i2mo 

Here  is  a  novel  which  has  as  its  foundation  a  very  interesting 
and  important  idea  —  universal  service  for  boys  and  girls.  Mrs. 
Bruere  is  not  writing  about  a  Utopia  but  tells  a  fascinating  story 
of  two  young  people  (as  well  as  a  good  many  others)  in  the  not 
far  distant  future,  who  are  drafted  for  their  years  of  universal 
service.  It  is  not  fair  to  give  the  story  away  —  but  you  can 
imagine  what  would  happen  when  Mildred  Carver,  the  lovely 
daughter  of  an  old  New  York  family,  runs  a  tractor  in  Minne- 
sota with  Maurice  Epstein  from  the  East  Side  and  Ellen  For- 
sythe  from  Greenwich  Village.  It  is  a  splendid  after-the-war 
story. 

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m 


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NOV     6    1947 


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